I'm a stitch away from making it (and a scar away from falling apart)
by CapturetheFinnick
Summary: PBB fic. Famous AU where Dan is in a band and his fame grows daily and Phil is his boyfriend who is scared of getting left behind. Can their relationship survive the strains of fame? Established relationship, fluff with angst. Phan. Rated T for swearing, mentions of self hatred, slurs etc.


_**Okay so yes this is a full fic, and yes I haven't written recently at all bc u know shit happens. But this is my phandom big bang fic, I have been writing it since like March and I poured my life and soul into it honestly. As it was the phandom big bang I did have an artist (who dropped out but whose art you can see on my tumblr) and a beta** **thatsmistertoyou (on tumblr). If you want to see full dedications etc you can view the fic on my tumblr. But yes, I really really hope you enjoy because this has been a long time in the making. Thank you! (Also I am sorry if there are any formatting issues formatting has been driving me crazy and the lines won't go in between the parts and ugh)**_

* * *

There was something about live shows. Something about the melding together of a crowd, skin melting into skin, every single heart beating through the floor, like an organism, alive, thriving. There was something about the passion that ripped from throats, hands that flew independently from minds, the absence of the conscious state. The absence of the seeping black mist, replaced with gentle fog creeping, alarm bells replaced with the shrill of guitar strings, the beating rain with the slam of a drum. Construed from human beings, like souls poured onto the stage, a level above the beauty of nature, the air thick with something no one could touch

The smoke covered the stage, a single blue light tumbling down. The crowd fell silent, the air thick with power. Bonds of conformity weaved around their waists, tying them together, twin memories searing onto their ventricles.

His hair glowed under the light, a halo that meant nothing, his eyes sparkling as his mouth stumbled into his signature smirk, and the screaming started again. The drums sticks pounded down, like the crashing of boulders down mountains, as waterfalls streamed from Dan's lips, the bird-like song of guitars humming through the air as everything collected in a colossal bang.

It is that moment.

It's that moment where life seems to run through the veins. Where everything makes sense. Phil was there. And no matter how many times he saw it, no matter how many times he watched from the side, every single time, he felt like the most alive person in all of the world.

 _You can stay home you know._ The familiar whisper as Dan kissed him against the wall of the side stage. His hair significantly softer than he knew it would be when the show had finished, cables pressing against his back as his fingers ran through Dan's hair. A grunt of a lie, _next time,_ like he said every . Single. Time. But he knew that he never would. Because something ignited within him when he saw Dan on the stage, and Phil couldn't quite get over the way he looked under those blue lights.

Phil felt Dan being tugged away from him, a smirk vaguely visible in the shifting light, a tough hand on his shoulder. _Sorry mate._ Ennis. His thick black hair reminding Phil of a time not so long ago, of the constant head flicks before his hair had grown shorter. Sometimes Phil wished he had never cut it. He felt like he would like Dan to be able to brush his hair out of his eyes. Ennis played the drums. And he always played shirtless. One day Phil would ask him why.

Phil had been attending the 'local' shows for quite a while, rolling around with the band as their small, spray-painted van had turned into an actual touring bus. Phil remembered the day that it had arrived, shiny and red like something from America. There were actual beds, and a cooker, and a toilet. The band looked even more rugged than usual standing next to it.

In fact, the tour bus had become a sort of makeshift home to Phil, the soft duvet that stretched around him, the lulling wheels, the 'casual' close bond. But mostly because that's where Dan spent most of his time. And Phil felt drawn to Dan like a magnet.

Sometimes it all got a bit out of hand. Sometimes he could feel eyes boring into him, growing heated like lasers. Unspoken questions of _why are you here?_

Phil felt it too. The guilt. He hadn't earned the lifestyle he had ended up with. He had given up his office job last year, leaving him reliant on Dan. And his parents. But they were a little distant. Less ' _young and reckless'_ and more ' _wholly stupid',_ and Phil knew it. Although Dan did miss Phil in a tie. And Phil missed the way Dan's thumbs would roll over it.

Dan was away a little too often. There was a lull like the sea on Dan's side of the bed, water falling through Phil's hands, the classic white hands outstretched to find nothing there. It was difficult not to feel the lull, not to wish that Dan would come back. He tried not to be ashamed of it. But it crept up on him. Like the creeping fears that lingered in the shade of his shadow.

Dan's side of the bed had grown to be so _cold,_ it hit at his chest.

The red bus had rolled all over Europe, past the Eiffel tower, Colosseum, grand'palace, St Peter's Basilica, the ancient city walls, the ruined city of Pompeii. Not that the band cared. They were too stoned to notice. They cared more about their lack of phone reception. Phil had grown sick of 'high' phone calls, he was becoming scared that he was beginning to relate to the Arctic Monkeys a little _too_ much. And Phil had wanted to go, he had wanted to accept the offer of the warm eyes and outstretched hand, but a kind of guilt had ridden over him. This wasn't his journey. It was Dan's. Dan said someone had asked where he was. He suspected he was lying. And so Phil had stayed at home. Or _one_ of their many homes. Or Dan's homes really. He had a small empire.

The final shout of 'goodnight' came just as the edge was beginning to wear off, Dan's arms throwing themselves into the air as if the answer to life's question lay in the drifting particles, as if the swirling dust would strengthen his blood. His smile certainly indicated so.

All four members piled off the stage, reeking of whatever stimulant they had chosen to pile into their body that night. Phil didn't care too much. Dan promised he would never bring it home. And Phil believed him.

Dan's lips found his and Phil gripped onto Dan's head tightly, feeling all the energy from the performance swarming back to him, as he tried to wrap his legs around Dan, stumbling backwards slightly and howling with laughter. Dan rejoined his lips to Phil's.

"You're lucky, you know," he murmured into the kiss. "A thousand girls would die to be in your position."

Phil only laughed. "Get over yourself, Daniel Howell." He kissed him again. "Or am I supposed to bow at the feet of the sex god now?"

"That would be good."

"Too bad."

A knock cut through the _atmosphere._

Angie. Phil could no longer hear the sharp knock of high heels without thinking of Angie. Angie, who hated him. Angie, whose temperament didn't reflect remotely the origins of her name. Phil thought she might be better named 'Satan' but maybe that didn't have the same sort of ring to it. He couldn't help but think that her parent's hopes had been shot a little high. He didn't know why Dan couldn't just find another publicist. Maybe Dan liked the confrontation.

All three members herded behind her like a flock of sheep.

"Daniel. Autographs." the voice was curt, filled with an edge of exasperation, the tapping foot longing for a red glass of wine and an island counter in an LA apartment somewhere.

Phil had no idea why she insisted on calling him Daniel. Maybe she thought he was part of the Bible. Although, considering his hand still wandered up the back of Phil's shirt, somehow he doubted it.

Dan wove his fingers into Phil's, wincing as the lights were turned on, his pupils still a little too big. Everything looked significantly less mysterious.

"Leave him," she said, her voice uptight and purse, a phone clutched against her ear. Phil saw Dan's lip curl. He backed away slightly.

"Him. _Him?_ _He_ is the love of my life"

Phil rolled his eyes, sharing a smirk with Ennis. Jett (whose real name Phil still didn't know, despite having known him for three years) tried to stifle a laugh behind his hand. Dan really could be overly dramatic sometimes.

"Honey," she said, looking up from her notes. "We've discussed this."

"Yes, and I've told you that _I don't care."_

"It's for your image."

"So you've said. Gay and taken," he let go of Phil's hand to make air quotation marks, "'doesn't sell'. Well I'm not a fucking product," he scoffed. "What's next, a bloody barcode?"

Lucas stepped forward, dragging Dan with him, rolling his eyes. "Always gotta be on a soapbox, haven't you Howell?" he said, laughing. Phil knew they didn't really mind; they were such close knit friends that Phil suspected they might never mind anything. He hoped that the upcoming fame and stress didn't tear them apart

And he didn't mind being left behind, not really. But he was becoming increasingly afraid of being burnt by the light of Dan's star. Or rather Dan growing tired of his dull light when there were a thousand stars in the sky. He would like to say it didn't enter his mind too often, but he had a lot of time to sit in empty spaces, and one's mind does to tend to wander. Lots of time to be that _affectionate partner,_ the male wag.

Phil hated the term 'wag', _'wives and girlfriends_ ', because of course the fucking men had to be successful ones, of course women had to be the ones sitting at the edge. Well, women and Phil, he thought, as his head knocked into his palm, cables wrapping around his ankles like snakes.

* * *

Phil leant against the bar. The room swam with darkness. _Why do these places always have to be so goddamn dark?_ He knew what Dan would say if he were there. _Immersion._

Speak of the devil.

Dan paced towards him, black jeans clinging to him and a white blouse almost falling off his torso. Two types of people rolled into one. It made Phil's fingers twitch; not in a sexual way, he just had an overwhelming urge to do up another button, because _seriously,_ you could see all of that boy's chest. Maybe that was the point. Maybe Dan was just a tease with a plan

Phil felt several heads turn, a few licks of the lips. Jealousy simmered, rattling the pan lid, but it stayed shut, much to his satisfaction. He snaked his arms around Dan, smiling when Dan kissed the top of his head. He had shared this notion before, heads against the pillow as they looked upon the ceiling like clouds.

 _You're satanic, Phil Lester._

 _Yes, but I'm your Satan._

 _Fuck off, Phil, that doesn't even make sense._

"Spot the celebrity," Phil called. They sat perched atop of the sofa, sprawling legs dangling down onto the cushions below, the wall hard against their backs, drinks in other beat, a purple light would sweep over them and they would have to shut their eyes. But, alas, they'd found their spot and they sure as hell weren't moving.

"I see Miley"

"Where?" Phil's head shot up.

"Eager, are we?" Dan chuckled. "Over there, short black dress."

"Where?"

Dan laughed at Phil's excitement. "To the left of the bar there." He said, his fingers caressing Phil's chin and directing him in the right direction.

"Ah, I see."

"Happy now?"

"You know I would leave you for Miley," Phil whispered as he fell into Dan's lap. He was growing tired. If he could move his neck, he would look at the time.

"I know, baby," Dan said as he curled his fingers through Phil's hair.

Silver fishes in the hazy sea of people, small smiles thrown to them like drops of water. Dan loved the bubble that existed in the celebrity world, everyone keeps everyone's secrets. And that was just the way it was.

* * *

Dan was less than smooth carrying Phil up the stairs, Phil's eyes falling open more than once. But at least he was trying.

"Don't go to bed too late." Phil muttered, his voice coated in sticky sleep. "You've got an interview tomorrow." Dan laughed, kissing him on the head.

"Okay, Mum."

"If you do the same things with your mother as you do with me, then we have a problem," Phil murmured, sitting up and poking Dan in the nose. "Wait, are you carrying me?"

"So observant, Phil Lester. I do worry about you." And he was joking, but it was true. Phil was a clear target for Rohypnol spikers. He liked to keep Phil in his peripheral vision, especially in the dark. It had become somewhat of an instinct. Like a worried mother keeping an eye on her child. Then again with the mother analogy. Maybe Dan had a problem.

"But why?" Phil asked, snuggling back into Dan's chest.

"I don't know." Dan said, his breathing growing heavy as his foot hit the final step. "Love?"

"Ah, love." Phil whispered, and a small giggle found its way out of Dan's throat. That man was the light of his entire fucking life, and boy, did he know it.

* * *

There was always a brief moment of panic when Phil woke up alone - especially in a foreign room, the hotel sheets winding around his naked body. And he wondered exactly what had happened the night before. His head had decided to go diving against rocks, and he was convinced that if he sunk his head into the pillow hard enough, it would drown into stillness.

It really was a beautiful hotel. Phil knew that Dan wouldn't have settled for anything but the best. Phil wondered which pseudonyms they had used this time.

His eyes drifted out the window, the clouds slowly rolling over the city, its towers stretching into the sky but never quite touching it, as if man was still trying to build a ladder to reach the stars. Phil hoped they would make it someday.

It was weird to think that everything seemed so still, and yet in each of the little yellow windows that were no bigger than Phil's thumb, lived a person, maybe a whole group of little people, with little lives and worries. Things that wrenched at their gutless souls, things that stirred the potion until it turned a darker shade of black, but also things that lit up their insides like a lamp, casting a shadows that tickled the stomach and erupted as laughter.

His hand stretched out for the remote lazily, flicking from channel to channel, his fingers feeling even more asleep than his mind, his blood replaced with a thick syrup.

There was Dan's face. The same face that had people moaning, _it's everywhere, they've plastered it to street corners,_ but Dan was very pretty, and there was no way his team weren't going to take advantage of that. That would be foolish, almost as foolish as letting Dan be open about his sexuality. Phil would laugh if didn't make him so sick. He sat up a little in bed, running a hand through his tousled, black hair, feeling the duvet drop just a little to reveal his collar bones.

No matter how many times Dan's hooked cheekbones dove through the screen, Phil still felt the same flip in his stomach, the same pride flood his blood and light his face like a candle.

Phil had noticed how they always seemed to centralise Dan, as if he were the centrepiece of the buffet, the beef, if you will - Phil tilted his head - more like the flaming baked Alaska. The other band members always seemed to be positioned around him, as if they were only there to highlight Dan. As if they were the contour stretched along the cheekbone, the light fading around Dan and leaving them in the shadows.

The slightly chagrined expressions seemed to indicate the guys had noticed too.

This time, however, it was just Dan being interviewed. No longer a bright star amongst many but a flying comet. The elastic bands grew taunter between the group, Angie's hand forever on Dan's back, a proud woman with her glimmering prize.

He remembered Dan pulling on the sleeves of his shirt, swiping his hair across more times than was necessary, taking deep breaths in the mirror. It was weird for him. But then Dan had begun to branch out, like a small sapling that Phil had got the opportunity to watch grow, branching into modelling and small scale acting, even solo collaborating with some names in lights. Not that Phil was surprised. Everything about Dan was so _easy_ to love, and he saw it every day, people falling for him. He had 'the package', as his manager would say. And he did, but when Phil agreed, he was referring to something else. When Phil said it, he said it with a wink and a smirk.

" _So,"_ the man begun, and Phil wondered whether his fringe was a hairpiece. He was sure his hairline had been further back last time. If Phil had learnt anything over the past few years, it was that most famous people wore hairpieces. He felt betrayed but he was coming to terms with it.

" _A handsome lad like you,"_ he winced at the use of 'lad' and Phil only laughed, the duvet falling slightly and leaving his chest prisoner to the cold. _"There must be someone in your life."_

Dan smirked. "Oh, there is."

Phil could almost see the smile fall from Angie's face, he could see her golden cup topple to the floor. Angie. Who was an angel with a rotting centre. Phil was sure she meant well. But then, he thought that of everyone.

Phil remembered arguments over films, curled up under a blanket with one too many holes.

' _For god's sake Phil, he's just killed him with a bat'._ The actor's face grew more serious.

 _'I'm sure he meant well.'_

The roll of the eyes that didn't have the original meaning. Dan's voice reminded him of duvets.

Phil's eyes fixated back onto the screen; the grey man (who was far too passed it to be called a silver fox) raised his eyebrow slightly, leaning forward because _oh man, the scoop on Daniel Howell, everyone's going to watch this._

"Oh, oh - and get this," Dan's voice dripped with sarcasm. His face carried a mischievous glint. As if he knew what he was doing but was over the cliff of caring, as if life was a chess game and he'd called _'checkmate'._ Phil began to wonder whether he had taken anything He didn't remember Dan doing so that morning, but then again, he didn't remember much.

"It's a _boy,"_ he shout whispered, widening his eyes. Phil heard a genuine gasp in the audience, but all he could do was laugh, imagining the line on that poor woman's face growing deeper, stamping her foot like she was in a bullring. Phil almost wanted to wave a red flag, to taunt her a little, but he stopped himself. Just the idea of her falling against the wall, clutching her heart like the villain who is finally revealed at the end of a good (if slightly ridiculous) romcom. It was enough. Phil resisted the urge to laugh maniacally.

The grey man seemed to stutter slightly, straightening his tie, as if to balance out the sexuality in the room. Dan was grinning wider than Phil had seen in a long time. "Well does this _man_ have a name?"

"Phil."

"Phil…"

"We don't want to be stalked, thank you," he said with a nod, and this time, Phil really could see Angie in the background, making a motion across her neck like a guillotine, mouthing _'cut' 'cut'_. The camera captured Dan's long laugh as it slowly faded to adverts, and Dan had never looked happier as everyone flustered around him. Phil could almost see the black smoke pouring from his body. His laughter reminded Phil of freedom.

* * *

Dan's back leant against Phil's chest. His fingers flicked through the piles of magazines that lay in front of him. Phil wrapped his fingers in his hair. He felt lighter somehow. Maybe it was the elimination of _the secret,_ maybe it was just the beaming smile.

"Can you believe people give a shit?" he murmured, his words wrapping the room in a bow. Phil searched for an edge of worry, a hint of _oh shit what have I done,_ but fog clouded on Phil's glasses. It could not be seen.

"Hmm," Phil murmured, but his eyes were not tracking the black and white like a barcode, they were caught upon the line of Dan's jaw. No picture in a magazine could ever do justice to the Dan that sat before him, hair dampened and curling at the edges. Waves rolling towards his cheeks. His pupils that widened ever so slightly in the dark. His mouth that tilted upwards when the lights faded. The dwindling marks across his neck, greys fading into purples and blacks. As if they were hidden just below the surface, still covered in a smidge of makeup that Dan could never remove.

That was another reason why Angie didn't like Phil.

He could see her face in his mind every time his lips found Dan's neck. Phil wouldn't even be surprised if she insisted on sleeping in Dan's room. He was her star. He wasn't even sure if she saw skin - bruised or not, if she saw eyes, if she saw hair, or whether she just saw coins sweating from his skin, like a fountain flowing from his mouth. Her diamond that was a little too rough around the edges. But Phil liked the edges. The edges gave Dan _character_ (and one too many wild nights in Vegas).

Phil felt Dan's hand linger over the edge of his glasses. His lenses were still coated with sleep, and the last-night splatter of alcohol fuming from a smashed glass.

"You look so sexy," he said, his voice lilting into a point.

Phil laughed, but he couldn't help the shiver that ran through his body. His pupils dilated ever so slightly.

"The glasses?"

There had been walls of glasses. A woman with a smile brighter than the dullness behind her eyes. A million pairs of eyes to follow him, a million identities to take.

Phil sometimes thought that Dan was a shapeshifter. The disguises had started to linger around a year ago. The hats with brims just slightly too wide, pulled lower and lower over the eyes with each passing morning. The glasses with rims that got thicker each time, with lenses darker than the night which he crawled through. Dan liked the night; it was the day he avoided. The flashing of lights were too bright in the daytime. The flashes of lights that were tattooed to the inside of his eyelids, scarred against his skin, etched along his tongue. He was branded, a thick red poker and a mark to skin, marked _'Dan Howell; possession'_

Phil didn't mind Dan's disguises, and Phil got the sense that Dan liked Phil's a little too much from the way he liked to pull them off, letting them cascade to the floor. It had been a good day when Phil had got his glasses.

Dan wrapped his arms around Phil's back as Phil's leg snaked over his lap.

"Are you free today?"

"I can't guarantee she's not glancing through the peephole."

"Want to give her a show?" Phil's voice scraped across Dan's jawline, pushing his lips into a smirk.

"Fuck yes."

* * *

Phil wondered whether he should be worried about how much of their relationship was spent lying around in bed. The duvet festered for slightly too long. The crisp having been lost to be replaced with the smothering blanket. Small boxes littering the duvet like clouds in the sky. And Phil wondered whether clouds would start looking more like boxes, with the increase in global warming.

Sometimes they called room service, revelling in the platters that reminded Phil of coins. Coins swirling around, dropping down, the eager boy's face waiting to see whether he'd won any rusted coins pulled by the metal detector, cascading with sand, a smile and a _well done buddy._ The days when the sun would shine and the waves would roll and it was simpler.

It reminded him of the beach in two kinds of ways; in the ways that his life was usually split in those days. In the before Dan and the after Dan.

The before Dan and after Dan that was as unhealthy as the noodles that creeped from the boxes onto the _white_ duvet.

The before Dan where ice cream lingered on the breeze. Where his feet dashed down the sand dunes, kicking up sand. Where his brother was the rat catcher, out to get him, his pale skin transforming into thick black fur, a snout, and snarling teeth. Where the waves rolled and crashed. And Phil thought it was all magic.

And the after Dan.

The after Dan where the wind trapped sand in between their laced fingers, where the moon overlooked all that was dark and the water was so cold Phil thought his veins might ice over, the final piece of clothing hung over a rock. Where blankets curled around sand and the stars were bright. Where they found a cave and forgot that people could see them.

A strawberry dropped onto the tip of Phil's tongue.

Sometimes the duvet felt heavy, but despite the lightness of winter New York air, somehow the world felt heavier.

* * *

It wasn't a party. Or maybe it was. That depended upon the definition. There were people, and alcohol and light music, but it was lacking the streaming lights and disco panels, and the packed in celebrities grinding against each other.

Which was a bit of a shame.

But Phil liked these kinds of parties too. He liked the closeness and the intimacy, the air just as thick but in a different way.

Celebration hung in the air, the pop of the cork, and the cry of _we made it._ And Phil wondered once more what 'it' meant and whether a clear definition could ever be cut from crystal. And whether the definition of 'it' was too complex to be summed up by a two letter word. (Phil might have been a little drunk, in fact a lot drunk, he had mistaken a lamp for Hillary Clinton)

The band had completed their first world tour, and Phil had intended to make a banner but he had been drunk even before the sun had gone down. And even though Phil had returned himself to Dan a week ago, folded into a battered suitcase and mailed to New York, he felt as if the time was finally over. Now they could spend time together, a week precisely, but that was practically a year to Phil.

Somebody's fingers plucked at the strings of a guitar and there were far too many people crammed into Dan's apartment for it to be described as merely a _band party._ Unless the band had expanded considerably since leaving for tour. In which case, Phil was frankly offended that he hadn't been drafted in; he was sure his cat-like voice and lack of musical talent would fit in somewhere. _You're the groupie,_ Dan's words curled around him, _you just stand there and look pretty._ Phil smirked. _Am I doing a good job?_

 _A very good job._

Bodies crammed themselves onto the spiralling staircase and vodka splashed through the gaps in the stairs, running along the wooden floor. It was somewhat of a trap. Phil wondered if that was what flies felt like at all times. He could hardly compare it. All he would get is wet socks, flies got their legs ripped from their bodies. Phil shuddered. He felt a sudden compassion for the tough life of the flies.

Behind a wooden door was a meeting. The rest of the people who sat at the side lines, on the boxes, cables wrapping around their ankles. The 'wags'. He felt them smile, welcoming their honorary member. Phil recognised Jett's wife, looking just slightly too pregnant for the stench of vodka. But there was a spot next to her on the sofa and Phil's feet would be grateful of a sit down. Or at least he thought they might be. He'd lost contact with them over an hour ago.

 _Houston, I think we've got a problem._

It was a little quieter in the room, and Phil remembered some talk of soundproofing. He also remembered Dan forgetting to tell him when the soundproofing man was coming, his lungs stretching out to the chords of Matt Bellamy for a good half an hour before he heard him bustling about downstairs. He confined himself to the lounge for the rest of his visit.

Phil found that he could actually hear people's voices, he'd forgotten how they were different to music, even if they were a little slurred.

"So, Dan's outing caused quite a stir." There was a woman. A woman whose name floated in front of her face, blurring her features, the words sharper than her eyes. Phil tried to snatch it but he knew he would miss before he moved. (Vicky? Jessie? June? He was sure he could make out an 'I' at some point) at that moment it could have been anything and his mind would have nodded slowly.

"So I heard" he said, taking a swig from the bottle in his hand. He couldn't remember where it came from. In fact, he didn't even know which contents swished at the glass walls. But it burned his throat a little on the way down.

"It was so fucking cute."

"Really?" Phil chuckled, "I thought he sounded like an asshole." Vicky (Nicky? Jane?) Cackled and Phil was sure he spied a snaggletooth attempting to escape from her lower lip. He could hear the alcohol that swam in her voice. He figured snaggletooth would be a great name for a band. Maybe he would suggest it to Dan next time he saw him. His eyes glanced over the window slightly, as if he imagined Dan might be waiting on a branch in the dark.

"He looked smitten." Hazel smiled, drawing a teacup to her face, and Phil wondered how she managed to radiate such a glow. He was sure it wasn't just the pregnancy. It was more of a talent. Her tea was a swirling deep purple, and in his drunken state Phil couldn't tell where her hair ended and where the tea begun, blending into one. Jett was lucky, Phil knew that. But he was also lucky, he felt as if anyone who was friends with Hazel was lucky, she was that kind of person, as deep and sweet as her hair. He didn't know her real hair colour, the same way he didn't know Jett's real name, and yet he felt as if he knew them both better than he knew himself. Maybe it was just the alcohol. Maybe it enhanced his deep appreciation of people, he doubted it though. Hazel really was something else. The kind of person you paint as an angel, if you live in the renaissance era. Phil had always had mixed feelings about the renaissance era. (The paper's sometimes described Dan as a renaissance man) Phil laughed aloud, thinking about Dan in a tight, ruff collar. Several people stared, but they weren't real, their faces were smudged like a child's painting.

"Well he is, have you heard him speak?" another woman chipped in.

Phil liked being a part of the girl's club. He had always looked over at the girl's table in school, and watch their smiles widen just a little, and wonder what they were talking about. He wondered in retrospect whether than helped him to hide his sexuality, but he didn't want to kiss the girls, he wanted to join in them. He wanted a hug when he cried rather than a quick slap on the shoulder. He didn't want to be a girl, he just didn't want to live amongst the fear of femininity, the fear of compassion, the fear of _weakness._

He spied a nail varnish sat upon the table. He kind of wanted it on his nails. He also didn't know how to bring it up, and at that present moment his tongue was twisted into all the gaps in his teeth.

"He's a soppy motherfucker." Phil laughed.

"It's cute."

"It is."

"Speak of the devil." Hazel whispered, rolling her eyes towards the door and giggling slightly behind her hand. "Have fun."

Dan _was_ a devil, the little plastic red horns peeked up from behind his ears. Phil wondered whether it was a mirage. He didn't remember the mention of fancy dress. Then again maybe it was just Dan.

Phil smiled. Dan was even more drunk than he was. He couldn't walk in a straight line as he tried to amble over to the sofa and Phil was reminded of a gazelle's first steps; if a gazelle was wearing thick shades and had a glass with a little umbrella which was in danger of falling out.

"Phillip Michael Lester," Dan said, his breath mixed amongst his words, "I love you."

"Daniel James Howell, I am aware." He said reaching out his arm as Dan stumbled, barely able to keep his balance himself, as if his giggles were bubbling up and pushing him over.

The song changed, the notes lengthening and softening, like the smile upon Dan's face.

"Philip."

"Yes?"

"Can I please have this dance?" he bowed slightly and Phil giggled.

"Of course."

And they swirled around, their steps as smooth as the vodka that lingered on Phil's tongue, but it was nice, and not nearly as bitter.

And Phil got the sense that everyone was looking at them. And Phil got the sense that he didn't care.

* * *

Phil could see the flashing of cameras even through the drops of rain. A special filter, a downwards look from Dan's penthouse apartment. If you could even call it that. _Apartment._ The bloody thing had three floors. There was a piano and a spiral staircase.

Sometimes Phil loved it. And sometimes it brought him guilt.

He didn't have a house. He lived in Dan's like a hermit. He lived in Dan's pocket like a wish fairy. There was his writing, but that didn't bring any money, unless he were to write _The secret life of Dan Howell._ Which, quite frankly, would just be in poor taste. And Dan had already revealed the biggest thing. Hence the cameras. The bloody man had stripped him of his book deal. As if he wasn't rich enough already.

"Ready to go?" Phil felt Dan's fingers at the back of his hand. He wanted him to kiss him to the backdrop of New York. He felt he had probably been kissed to the backdrop of New York far too many times for his life not to be a movie at that point. Phil was scared that one day his back would push too hard against the glass and he would fall through the rain. Then again it would be a poetic way to die, and Phil certainly was fond of his poetic imagery, especially when surrounded by Dan. He wondered whether his poetry would sell better if people knew it was about Daniel James Howell; _the modern day sex symbol._ (Phil wanted to roll his eyes, but frankly, they weren't wrong)

On the other hand, Dan couldn't kiss him against the window, because the gaggle of lights was lit below them like a fire. The constant dangling of their limbs on a wire, the flames licking at their ankles. Eventually, their orange flames were going to stretch up and swallow them whole. It was common knowledge. Phil had heard they had more long scope cameras than ever.

"They're surrounding the building."

"Say it in a huskier voice and I think we have a Liam Neeson on our hands."

"Haha." Phil said mockingly, "we can't leave."

"All they'll get are some photos."

"Dan…"

"I promise you next week we'll go the cottage, the one the woods."

Phil sighed, Dan sometimes forgot how rich he sounded when he spoke. Phil was sure he meant well.

"You've got interviews next week."

"Fuck."

"And recordings starting the week after."

Dan looked down, a single wave of hair spilling from the ocean, his eyes growing slightly bigger. "I'm sorry"

Phil ran his fingers through his hair, the curls parting for his hands Dan didn't know of Phil's guilt. Or maybe he did. Maybe everyone knew of everyone's guilt. Maybe everyone had a guilt bubbling inside. Maybe everyone was just guilty of existing. Plagued with a seed of doubt that was planted at the start of all life. A flower destined to wilt and cower before accepting death.

The hat fell down on Phil's head, its brim extending out so far that it couldn't support itself, flopping at the edges like it desperately wanted to reach floor. It was a hindrance to his eye-sight.

The hat; _for protection. You can't let the bad guys get you down. Besides you look sexy in it._

Phil scoffed.

"According to you I look sexy in all accessories. I'm starting to think you just like me covered up." Phil tilted his head, letting the hat drop to the floor. There was a saying. Or maybe it was about a pin. Phil often got his sayings mixed up.

"You know that's not true." Dan said offhand, turning around, a feather boa drafted around his shoulders, "or do you want me to show you again?"

"No thank you." Phil said, the feathers tickling the inside of his nose, his cheeks turning redder than the hat that lay abandoned on the floor. Phil started to feel sorry for it. He was sure it meant well. It wasn't its fault it was so ugly.

"Wow thank you my oh-so-loving-boyfriend."

"You're welcome." Phil bowed a bow that was half way to a curtesy, his leg kicking out behind him. Phil hadn't gone to finishing school. Not that his homosexuality would have been welcome there. It wasn't even welcomed by his own father.

"Time to go!"

"You're not seriously going to wear that feather boa in public?"

"I have the power to start trends." Dan smiled, "And I want to see the streets lined with people in fucking feather boas."

* * *

To Dan's disappointment, the feather boas didn't take off. The feathers dampened and blew away in the wind, leaving a trail that caused Phil to shake his head and a camera to follow them on their walk. It turns out that the rain is everywhere, not confined to England as the British will have you think.

But Phil liked the rain, it's inescapable nature appealed to him. He liked the idea that wherever he went, the rain would welcome him as a friend.

He liked the idea that he always had a piece of home. A small fragmented momentum.

What he didn't like was the paparazzi. What he didn't like was the pictures that followed him, drawing an arrow above his head with a pencil as thick as a tree. His day captured in so many forms, ready for ogling eyes to look him over and declare him not worthy. _Oh look they're outside a shop, now a restaurant, look at them on the street._

What he didn't like were the heads that turned to look at him, feet splashing in puddles and eyes hooked onto his ears. What he didn't like was people's obsessions. He didn't know anyone who would want to read an article about him going to the hairdressers, (to get the same cut he had every year since he had turned seventeen) and yet there the flash was, trying to start a fire in the rain. Maybe Phil just didn't know enough people. Maybe people's hands hovered over their computer mouse, waiting to eat the shit up. Maybe Phil should get out more.

Then again, he couldn't, not as _'Phil'_ , _Phil_ had been burnt by the flashes, scattered to the ashes, and the mysterious _'Prince Phil'_ had risen like a one with no last name. Phil was finding it harder to separate his media identity from his real one and he wondered how people said that you can't know someone just through media. Because he already felt stripped bare, as if part of his soul had been poured into the media like a horcrux. He wondered if anyone had separate identities or whether that was all a myth.

* * *

Phil stared at the magazine in his hands, his back falling against the sofa. His hand was shaking free of his own mind. He didn't know why it got to him so much.

Front page. Front fucking page.

He could see Dan in the kitchen. Their small, galley, west-side (scoff) kitchen, that Dan had wanted to turn into a ball pit (or something as ridiculous and drug fueled). But Phil couldn't let it go. There was a part of the past hidden in the broken-hinged cupboards, a part of the old dan-and-phil, the ones who sat, unable to move, under a pile of sixteen blankets in the winter because they couldn't afford to put the heating on, the old Dan and Phil who lived off super noodles and out-of-date bread, who had absolutely nothing and yet somehow had everything. The old Dan and Phil of snaked hugs from behind and kisses on necks as they tried to scramble a meal together (scrambling was certainly a theme of the early 2000s), the old Dan and Phil who shared a chair, a life, a body it seemed sometimes, who were sown together, who were one. A lot had changed in the past few years. And Phil was beyond grateful. But there was a part of him that broke as his eyes ran over the magazine. Phil had spent years storing parts of the past in cupboards and pockets, stashing them behind sofas and behind bookshelves, little jars full of memories. And now they were all falling. They were all smashing, glittered hope spilling onto the stained floor.

Old-blanket Dan and Phil were dying, and Phil was being forced to welcome a new era, one of stretched ties and paranoia, of hands clasped together and flashes of lightning, of grimaces and lack of conversation.

A storm cloud rose over the horizon and Phil was not ready.

Dan's smile had diminished a little in brightness but it was still bright enough for Phil to see through the fog on his glasses.

* * *

They sat on a small table in the corner, slowly twirling their hot chocolates, letting the cream run into the drink, the inevitable swirl until the cream's all gone. The heat knocked against Phil's glasses and Dan's ankles were twisted around Phil's. Phil would hold his hand if he wasn't concentrating so hard on his hot chocolate. He was vaguely sure the t-shirt he was wearing was Dan's. And he was vaguely sure the man sat two tables away was a paparazzi.

He was even more sure he had become paranoid.

He tried to look Dan in the eyes as he spoke but that was the third hat the man had wore that day. One outside the shop (where Phil tried on scarves for Dan), one walking behind them on the pavement. And now another. This hat was black like a spider, it's legs clambering over his head, swamping down over his thick bushy eyebrows.

Dan was saying something.

"Hmm, yeah, sure" Phil said absent-mindedly, his eyes watching the spindly spider legs, bile creeping up his throat.

"Phil, Phil, earth to Phil" Dan shouted, waving his hand in front of Phil's face "You realised you just signed up to bondage sex with five other people in the back of this restaurant right?" Dan said laughing, "you need to learn how to listen."

Phil's ears went bright red as if burnt by the hot chocolate. And there was a slight layer of concern behind the laughter in Dan's eyes.

* * *

The airport was somehow both airy and grimy, the bright lights shining down like halos on the pair (who sat just slightly separately from the band, who were nudging each other and sniggering.) The airport was noisy and busy but somehow free from paparazzi (although perhaps this had to do with that fact they were sat in the corner with the bins), and Phil held Dan's hand a little too tight.

"15th April" Dan said, clutching onto Phil's hand "I'll be back 15th April."

Phil nodded, leaning in to kiss Dan and letting both of his hands entwine with Dan's.

"Come on lovebirds." shouted Jett, earning a finger from Dan.

"Good luck" Phil smiled, but he could feel the crystals gathering in his tear ducts.

"See you"

* * *

Phil was nearly 7000 miles away from Dan, snow was swirling around Dan's ears, rain knocking against Phil's. Phil didn't even want to think about how many steps that was.

Yet people still stopped, the slight tap on the shoulder, or the shout. Phil whipped around at every shout now. He felt as if he were always being watched. A crack of a footstep in the woods.

Phil thought he had learnt a lot about media, a lot about celebrity culture in his last three years with Dan; but lying in his bed staring at the ceiling, where the peeling glow-in-the-dark stars still stuck he realised he had never known anything. He had never known how twisted it could all become, how it could seep into every aspect of your life. He had no idea how Dan did it.

It said something about the world. _Just another shot, just another one please._ Phil pushed his way through the crowd. _Please, can you confirm, are you Phil?_ Did anyone give a fuck about talent, or was obsession merely built on nothing, the foundations rocking like a house in the wind. _What do you think of Dan's new clothing line?_ People wanted photos of him purely for a story, purely because he was wrapped within the big shocking secret of Dan Howell's sexuality. _How come you're not in New York with him?_ He was starting to hate Dan's cockiness, the implications of it haunting him every day. _Have you broken up?_ It was hard enough to be so far away, to be so far away with his thoughts without them becoming external, without them being shouted at him in the streets. _Is it on the rocks? When will you see him next? What do you think of his stunt with the paparazzi_ _?_

* * *

There was a car at the end of the road.

And it was all becoming too much.

Its hardened blackened shell reminded Phil of a beetle, crawling and creeping, its spindly legs hooking onto the crooks in the pavement, wanting to spread its gangling limbs all over his life, all over the roof of his home.

His childhood home, where the grass had been cut and his brother's room turned into an office but it was still so distinctly _home._ It was _boys! Dinner's ready,_ it was the stitched pillows in the living room, the carpet that rubbed the soles of Phil's feet, his window slightly glazed, the hedge reaching out, tickling the window pane.

And it was being infiltrated.

Phil had been on edge for so long, his stomach clenched in preparation for nothing, for a mechanism developed by old ancestors and adapted to the current human system. Tears streamed down his face more often than not, he had no control over his eyes. He had no control over his life.

His father didn't look up from his newspaper when he entered the room. His cold gaze pierced into the print, as if examining it, as if he could find a replacement son amidst the text.

Tears dropped onto his childhood quilt, into the soup his mother made.

Dan rung and Phil was surprised and how quickly his mood could change.

He was a victim to his own biochemistry. If that was indeed where emotions came from. Phil didn't know. Phil had spent his chemistry lessons writing poetry about the boy with the floppy blonde hair who would dump him at prom for Claire Seewald. _Claire. Seewald._ He was better than that surely?

* * *

"I miss you."

Phil could hear the lace of alcohol. Phil ignored it. He needed it too badly for it to go wrong.

"I miss you too."

Phil sunk back into his bed, the covers curling around him. Less like guilt now. More like a cloud. Although clouds could feel guilty. He pushed his feet backwards, letting his back curl against the wall. He almost wished the phone still had a cord just so he could wrap it around his finger. He was fitting inside of a glass box, and it was labelled _stereotype,_

also _pushover,_ but he didn't want to think about that one.

In the growing darkness he could convince himself that the flashing had never happened, that the rope still tied them; that it wasn't fraying and tearing.

In the growing darkness he could still convince himself that Dan was still his.

The moon shone through his childhood windows and the room held a stench of nostalgia, and of a wrongly romanticised past. Phil's old playstation hogged the corner of the room, and his old teddy bear lay abandoned on a high shelf, even his duvet cover was still covered with the rockets of his youth. He was surrounded by a past which seemed idyllic to him (Phil was clearly misremembering the days of loneliness, of watching 'play outs' turn to 'parties' neither of which he was invited to) and yet he himself was in a much different place. Like a lone grey cloud in a blue sky.

The skype call was grainy and there was a light outside Dan's window that kept flashing. The skype calls reminded Phil of the first tour. Dan's hair slightly longer. His face slightly rounder. His fingers twitching nervously, sweeping over his collar. Two hands held together in a world that was falling apart.

"How's ohio?"

"Utah" Dan laughed

"Utah, right, how's Utah?"

"Lot's of mountains, lakes"

"Cool"

The small electric particles were crushed together, forming a thick and awkward layer of tension between them.

It was dark where Dan was and Phil could see his eyes itching, twitching back and forth as if controlled by a puppeteer. Time zones were difficult. Being apart was difficult. There wasn't one part of it that wasn't difficult.

"For god's sake man will you turn that computer off" yelled Jett, a black arm arising from the bed behind Dan's head, lurching forward as if he was rising from the dead. It was almost comical. Dan's eyes lit up slightly, his fingers pulling the edge of his sleeve over his hand as it stretched over his mouth, a smile lit by the streetlights vaguely visible below. Phil smiled back like a mirror.

He saw Dan stand up, his jumper lifting up as he walked towards the door, opening it before positioning himself in the light of the hallway. It wasn't a soft glow of light, it was harsh and electrical but it still made Phil smile to be able to see Dan's face.

"Any girls launch themselves at you today?" Phil said, laughing

"Just a few"

Phil smiled, "It's weird being back at my parents"

A look of guilt spilt over Dan's face, tinged with annoyance, "I'm sorry again"

"No it's fine, I quite like it, the weaving of the past and present and all." Phil laughed, "I feel like I could be inspirational, finally get back to writing poetry"

This couldn't be further than the truth. Phil hadn't picked up a pen in months, he hadn't had a single idea in what seemed like years, a grey cloud seemed to follow him, blotting out the words on his paper. But he put on a smile, and he put on a lie, because he wanted to make Dan happy.

Dan smiled, "Good, I would like that"

It was difficult but somehow it was worth it.

* * *

Phil's brothers house was painted bright yellow.

Not in a professional sense, not by men in hats with ladders and qualifications rotting on old paper. It was painted in a chipped sense, in a way that expressed the _character_ that Phil loved so much, the umbrella-term that he shared with his brother, with his mother, maybe even with his cold father if he knew him at all. Thought he doubted his father enjoyed the colour yellow, or the daffodils that grew in the front lawn. He doubted his father looked upon the sun and smiled.

When Phil looked at the walls, he saw smiles and he saw happiness. And even though happiness is not a constant; and Phil knew that, (he had known that for far too long) he thought that it might be nice to have a reminder wrapped around your home. He thought it might be nice to look at the yellow through the blurring tears and know that, at some point, something was right in the world.

His fingers lingered over the bell and a dog barked, a baby cried. Phil's eyes drifted to the swing set upon the front lawn. He wondered whether his brother had moved into an American family sit-com. He wondered whether that was a good thing.

He guessed that made him the weird uncle. Which was only marginally better than the mysterious boyfriend.

He tried to skype as often as he could. But the last few years had been so hectic, and Phil had lost track of his life a little. He had lived _in the moment._ Which was all well and good, until you get stuck there. Until the walls are closing in and you can't get back. Or forward.

Cornelia opened the door, her head a shade redder than when he saw her last, but her green eyes still shone brightly, her mouth taking a second to register before smiling, flinging her arms around him.

Phil had always got the impression that Cornelia was a hugger, whether she knew people or not, her arms wrapped around them. Phil wasn't always too fond of hugs. But he was more than glad today.

"Mark!" she called, "I'm so glad you came!" she squealed, turning to Phil once more and he had to refrain from making some kind of dirty joke, he'd hate to become the person who morphed into their partner.

Mark's sweater vest stretched over his chest in a way that made him look both older and younger. In a way that reminded him of round rimmed glasses, backpacks heaved up to the shoulders, _nerds._ But no one shouted nerd at a science professor. Or maybe they did. Phil wouldn't know. Whilst Phil was a lonely seed floating on the breeze, Mark and had spent time building foundations. Phil had spent time _in the now_ , and when the storm came, both of them knew who was more prepared.

Phil noticed the university emblem hanging from the porch door. _Roots._ He could sure as hell do with some of those.

Small, grubby fingers clutched at pleats in the fabric of Cornelia's skirt, small eyes peeking out from behind like a number from _sound of music_ (which Dan still insisted was the most beautiful film to ever walk this earth).

"Hello Joe," Phil whispered, bending down and placing his hands on his knees, trying desperately to make his eyes light up a little bit. He wasn't there to paint the house grey. He was there to visit his brother. Whom (maybe) he had been avoiding (slightly). Mark had always been sceptical about Dan.

"Harley" The child whispered.

"Huh?"

"Harley, that one's Harley."

"Wow how many do you guys have now." Phil said.

The laughter was forced but at least it broke the tension. Or at least, if not that, part of his bond with his brother.

The fact was that Phil knew how many kids Mark had, and he knew their names, he just couldn't tell them apart. They all had his sandy blonde hair and Cornelia's sea green eyes. Both of which he was jealous of.

Phil's brother was a nerd, Phil knew that, he had always known that, growing up he had moved school _3 times._ Kids could be cruel. He was just glad it hadn't knocked the passion out of him. Although he almost wished it had.

Mark's kids were named after famous astronomers. Phil had grown tired of trying to remember each one and what their part was in discovering the universe. He had written it down in the notes on his phone. He really did want to make an effort.

Joe: _Johannes Kepler (1571-1630) determined that planets travelled around the sun not in circles but in ellipses._

Eddie: _Edwin Hubble (1899-1953) calculated that a small blob in the sky existed outside of the Milky Way._

Harley: _Harlow Shapley (1885-1972) calculated the size of the Milky Way galaxy and general location of its centre._

And then there was Henry: _Henrietta Swann Leavitt (1868-1921) she discovered that the brightness of a special flashing star known as a Cepheid variable was related to how often it pulsed. This relationship allowed astronomers to calculate the distances of stars and galaxies, the size of the Milky Way, and the expansion of the universe._

Mark could form a small band, _the Lester family singers._ Maybe they would make a film out of _them_ (although it would never beat sound of music). "Kids!" Mark shouted, his eyes screwing tighter in a way that made Phil notice his wrinkles. The tiny crevices in his face, as if he were a clay model, as if someone had slipped with the knife, as if the clay had been left to dry too long, the material cracking and splintering, forgotten in the corner of a workshop.

Mark's kids lined up, and Phil put on his happy face (which was harder to find these days), the last piece of patchwork in the tie rope he had to pull out of his sleeve. Like a clown. Like a clown he too was somebody behind the makeup. Behind the flashing lights that carved themselves onto the inside of his eyelids. Behind the smiles.

"So, Phil, what brings you here?" Mark exclaimed, leaning against the countertop in the kitchen, a posture that is supposed to talk of ease, but he looked tense. He looked awkward. Phil didn't know what it was. Maybe it was the angle of his elbow, or his knee. Or maybe it was the thick air in the room. The chair that used to curl around him, but now wouldn't bend for Phil. It had forgotten him.

"We saw Dan's interview," Cornelia smiled. A small, watery smile that held the fraying ropes. A small smile that was stopping everything from falling apart. "It was really quite funny. We're really happy for you too, it must be nice to be out?"

The air scratched against his throat.

"Uncle Phil?" came a tug at his trousers, came a sandy haired child, watery eyes finding his like the sea against the sand.

"Yes, Henry?"

"Can I sit on your knee?"

"Of course". There was a tear trapped behind Phil's eye. "Oh wow, you've grown so much."

He noticed the splatter of paint across the child's hand. The ray of sun caught shy in her earlobe. It was difficult to believe that the child would grow up, would shed the shimmering skin, would become someone with reality behind their eyes, with heavy pebbles balanced on her shoulder blades. Maybe even a flash in the rain.

A month ago he had looked upon his brother and wanted the same with Dan. He had looked upon the chipped paint and the squealing swing set, and the knotty curls of the children's hair and wanted it. A small house in the country filled with only them. Domestic dreams of curling happiness. Now he wasn't too sure.

He could feel Dan paling in the light, his bold form fading, turning grey against the moonlight. He could feel Dan's hand drifting from his. He was afraid that if he reached out his hand would go straight through. _He's just trying to figure himself out. He's only young. It must be tough._ But puzzles weren't exclusive and Phil wondered why they couldn't figure it out together. Maybe his life was less of a movie than he had thought. Or maybe this was just the dramatic part, where the long chords reach their peak and the montage falls, scattered glass across the kitchen floor and the holding of hands in heads.

Phil just hoped it had a happy ending.

* * *

Dan made an announcement. But nothing ever disappears. The flashing still remained and Phil walked in Dan's shadow.

They flew to the Caribbean mid recording. Angie boiled faster than a kettle. Their names fell of the locals tongues in a way they hadn't before. Phil wondered if his eyes were ever dry, despite the desert winds.

He wanted to write, he wanted to pick up his pen and let the ink flow like a river, to scrawl unintelligible letters and words that he would regret once he forgot their meaning.

But he couldn't.

The ink was his blood and his blood was dry.

His hand hovered over the door and he wondered when he had started thinking about knocking. The thick, green fleece of his hoodie wrapped over his torso in a way that felt different to before, as if the cotton were laced with a poison, as if the scratching fabric had scarred bumps against his skin.

 _That's my hoodie you know._

 _Liar._

 _It says university of Manchester._

 _My boyfriend went to Manchester._

 _Uh-huh, his name?_

 _Dan-Dansher_

 _Liar_

 _Do you really want it back?_

 _Of course not._

A small brown stain lingered on the sleeve and Phil ran his finger across it fondly. He wondered when he started differentiating between Dan's.

Old Dan, New Dan.

But what was he? Phil. Phil the constant. Phil with no job and a sack of dreams with a hole in it. Dan had grown up tall and strong and left him, a sapling on the ground.

A stain from chocolate, and not good chocolate, the kind of chocolate with _2% cacao_ scribbled along the edge and a sad numbing sensation on the tongue.

* * *

The piano had a spotlight all of its own and Phil thought that if you wanted to describe Dan to someone, that would be it. Passionate, excitable, but an edge of drama queen. Not that you could tell him that, of course not.

Phil smirked.

He finally felt as if they were in the same room, not the awkward cold hug at the end of a plane journey, not the holding back of arms in front of the flashing cameras, not touching in a physical sense. He could do that with anyone.

No, he felt as if, for the first time since the rain stopped falling, he was actually in the same room as Dan. His paling, frail figure becoming more real, absorbing the dark rays of the night.

Dan's fingers drifted over the piano keys, the notes drifting without knocking.

He didn't mean to sing, but the words were coming, spiralling up his throat. A song from a while back. A song from a distant world. From a world of hazy mornings and burnt toast, of curling fingers around buttons, of smiles through sheets. A world that was _across the pond._

Hazy. Distant. But just about see able.

 _You smile, I wave, off the plane_

 _Your hair curls and I'm glad to see you_

 _For no luxury ever compares to old sheets and burnt toast_

 _No champagne can replace happy memories_

 _My love, our love is hidden in the drawer_

 _It's a glowing orb in the corner_

 _But we can make it, this fragile bird of ours_

 _It can stretch its wings and soa_

Phil leant against the piano, wandering around and sitting next to Dan, perching on the end of the piano seat. Like old times. Phil rested his head against Dan's shoulder.

Each piano note was a bullet, shattering into the flashing lights, scattering glass over the floor. Dan's veins were bright blue in his hand and they shook ever so slightly. Phil wanted to tear his eyes away, to focus on the music, to get lost in it and forget, but he couldn't stop watching Dan's pasty hands, cowering as if in fear, as if his blood was vibrating with pressure. It was the glitch in the matrix and he was hooked. The small glitch that told him it was not old times.

 _Old times._

Heads in hands and crumpled paper, bills to pay and lips upon lips _maybe it won't be there when we break away._ Every memory glowed with evanescence, with a sharp happiness in Phil's mind. But were they happier then? Memories could be tampered with, Phil knew that much. Not by a man in a grimy lab coat whilst he rested in a chair, but by himself, the past could glow with an evanescence that was never there when it was the present. _Retrospect._ Was his own mind lying to him? Were they happier then? Kisses upon kisses and the mould that grew in the corner of their room. He guessed back then they could pretend it was all pretend. Life. Like a room in a dolls house, their stitched smiles matching their stitched clothes, before they were thrown into the real world, the grass stretching over their heads. A sea of green and a flash of lightning.

And as Phil leant his head against Dan's shoulder, the familiar collarbone, _Dan Howell's famous collarbone,_ he wished for it to be real, for the past to be restored. But there was a glitch. And Phil couldn't look past it.

It flickered in the corner of his eye.

There were a few mornings. The endless ring of the telephone with the voices on the other end that scraped top G, which reeked of fury, the gradual disintegration of the band. The disintegration of everything. But the sun still beat on.

There were a few mornings where the glitch could not be found, and the mirage was not shattered.

Mornings of lazy kisses and a twisting amongst sheets despite the heat. _Did you just quote Taylor swift? What? She's an inspiration to all. Oh I know, I would dump you for her in a second._

Mornings of _is that Santa on your socks? Are you wearing Christmas socks in May?_

 _Why should the festivity have to end?_

An allusion of restoration. _Old Times._

Looking back they were already being scattered. They belonged to the wind.

* * *

Small scratches. Big flashes. Drooping eyelids and side glances.

If you asked someone why they broke up they might direct you to one event. But the truth is that the event was only the trigger, as so many events are. Their relationship was a vinyl, overused, overplayed, gathering scratches as it gathered momentum, covered in dust that they forgot to clean off, jumpy but still playable, then vaguely listenable but unpleasant, and then worthless, surrendered to the final scratch.

The final scratch.

The blurting headline that shouted proudly. The picture that earned the paparazzi man a million pounds. The hand he used to hold intertwined with that of _hers._

Her

Her long blonde hair flowing down her back ( _cascading_ as the article put it), her bikini red and blaring against the sand, as if it were made to match the headlines of the tabloids. Her feet were dainty, and her face was perfectly angled. But that wasn't the most important thing. The most important thing was her smile, a smile of fresh cut grass and blooming daisies, a smile so genuine that Phil couldn't bring himself to hate it as he looked upon it, not even as the lips pressed against Dan's own. Not even as flowers bloomed on Dan's own face, his lips stretching and curving in a way that Phil thought had been lost forever.

And that's what hurt him the most. It wasn't the physical cheating, it was the emotional cheating, the image of it scratched into the vinyl of his mind. Because she made him happy. _She made him happy when Phil couldn't._

And how could Phil hate that?

The fire licked at the side of the building. White. White like the sand that littered the building, like the marble that surrounded the pool, like the-second-favourite sofa in the-third-best living room. A house bought as an escape. A house built to be fireproof.

But the fire had found them. And it was raging in Phil's throat.

 _It's for publicity!_ Came the shout from the other side of the door, loud and boisterous but lacking in _passion_ lacking in the _fire_ that surrounded them, that charred them, that shrunk them to bones. Phil was sure if he were able to look at Dan's eyes he would see it. He would see the lack of care, the pupils glazed over like those nights on the buses. Those nights where smoke lingered in the air. Where it snuck into the alcohol and poured down their veins. Those nights where Phil would end up alone, legs dangling from the top bunk, watching the band slowly melt into the carpets.

There were tears in Phil's eyes.

Because Dan only half-cared, and he was half-done.

The milk had been left out too long and it had gone sour. Their vinyl was scratched beyond repair. The flames burnt at their skin.

Dan was gone and Phil's tear leaked onto the expensive leather. It crackled and spat with every drop, like the sea, raging for a return, raging with the unfairness of it all.

Dan was taken by the black and maddening crowd.

Each corner reminded him of Dan. And not in a way that filled him with warmth, not the mix of bubblegum and slightly-too-strong cologne, but in a way that shot at his chest. In a way where a plant grew a personality and became a soldier, ready to strike Phil with a weapon.

Phil had been through breakups before. And bad ones too. He usually buried himself in a duvet palace, curtains drawn, a hunk of chocolate hidden in the shadows, he usually marathoned buffy on his crackling television back at his old crappy apartment. None of that was left. He had traded crackling televisions and festering sweets for a new life, _a happier life,_ but nothing was ever as it was presented. He had slashed through his old ( _miserable_ as he had once put it) life, leaving it in tatters, and now, when he needed it, when he needed comfort food and his duvet palace and his old VCR, now when he needed to be on his own, it was gone.

And there was the small matter of Dan's hyper visibility. Phil couldn't be in the dark under Dan's _Hand woven blanket in mid weight cotton khadi with a distinctive houndstooth check pattern. Finished with fridge detail at ends_ blanket (which was somehow not as comforting) and Dan's _Noir aux Ecorces D'orange, dark chocolate bar_ (definitely not as comforting) because Dan wasn't anonymous like Phil's exes. Dan hadn't grown to be part of the crowd, his skin melding with others, fading into the pale egg blue walls. Dan had grown taller, had fashioned stilts from debris and broken bricks. Phil could _literally_ see him in every crowd. On every channel as he watched television, scratched onto the newspapers that were posted through the door, echoing through the old radio that sat in the corner.

Dan had once been Phil's form of escapism, and now he was trapped there.

Sometimes Phil would wrap the blanket tighter around himself. Sometimes he would wrap it so tight that he could imagine that was would fall in it, get lost in the magical pattern of the weaves. Get lost in a world where the girls face wasn't printed to the insides of his eyelids.

Because Phil wasn't famous and he wasn't a star against the dull grey sky of reality, he was an ordinary, pale man who was getting tears onto a one hundred pound blanket. Of course Dan would pick her, anyone would pick her, the special one. But the closer you get the more you realise stars are just burning gas, and everyone is breaking in some way or another. And he was sat there in his bed (that was really Dan's) with his blanket lapping against his knees, his eyes boring into the wall and he'd simply never felt more inadequate in his life. Because everyone's broken. Everyone's a jar fallen from the shelf, but Phil couldn't help but feel like there were different brokenness. His cracks seemed jagged and scarred, compared to the shimmering broken pieces of the girl, the edges catching the light, shimmering.

And when Phil stood in front of the mirror he could see all the flaws.

* * *

Grimy pans littered the kitchen counters and plastic packages over spilled from the bin. A blanket wrapped around Phil's shoulder. Outside the sun shone, and the sea lapped and people shouted. Phil wished it were raining. Phil wished the rain would wash away the world for a little while. He flicked the switch on the plug, letting the radio crackle to life. It was a mistake. But he was lonely. And sometimes you just wanted to hear someone talk without the responsibility of holding a conversation (his 200+ missed calls knew that much).

Dan's mellow voice leaked from the radio.

 _There's no flame in the rain_

 _Not anymore_

 _There's no smile in the crowd_

 _No not anymore_

 _You let everything swirl_

 _and you watched the door close_

 _and a heart is just a heart_

 _until it's broken_

 _and now when it rains it only pours_

 _and you jump when the phone rings_

 _and you clutch to the duvet_

 _and you have money and fame_

 _but without him, it means nothing_

 _and a heart is just a heart_

 _until it's broken_

Phil felt the cold tiles against his back, against the underside of his legs, the blanket fallen from one shoulder. The sun burnt into Phil's eyes and the radio would not stop crackling.

The sea lapped around the house like an island. Mist fogged at the windows like clouds. Occasionally Phil would allow himself to sit on the balcony, allow himself to smell the sea air and watch the people from a distance. Each person a small black dot moving across the sand. Forming a bigger puzzle. A bigger picture. He wondered how many of the people knew that the grand house stood on the cragged cliff face was Dan Howell's. He wondered how many took guesses. A big house on the cliff face has to belong to someone.

Phil remembered the last time they were there, he remembered a hand in his clutched tight against the spray of the sand. A smile stretched across Dan's face like a line in the sand, the rain pounding hard against their heads, their hair melting down their face like candlewax, a small halo of glow hanging above Dan's head; the light that even the rain couldn't put out. They fell back against the sand, laughing and letting their fingers intertwine, everything else a blur, everything else victim to the thundering rain. Phil's glasses were coated in small water drops. He remembered curled bodies on a sofa, lips trembling and hands shaking and the edges of hair that was still wet, the blanket damp but the fire roaring bright, a television ignored and a steaming cup of coffee.

Phil sneezed

 _Dan Howell you're bad for my health_

A punch on the arm and a kiss on the lips.

And the situation wasn't all that different. A blanket coated Phil's pale legs like paint, water splashed against his glasses like the sea. But it came from a different source and Phil was all alone.

Phil made a point never to read the newspaper. He made a point never to turn on the radio. Never to answer the phone. Never to look at the internet. He was driving himself insane. He was a tall man in a very small box. He had always sought the opportunity to read more books, to venture into the classics, to read _the great gatsby,_ to finally get through _the lord of the rings._ But he felt too empty to do that, like he was stood in the middle of a road, and cars were passing by, slowly, as if stuck to the tar, as if pushed back by the wind, his feet never strayed from the white lines, and nothing had yet hit his body, but it was coming.

He felt strangely at peace.

The words followed him;

 _A heart is not a heart until it's broken._

Somehow news penetrated the fort. Phil felt like a kid, building a shelter out of pillows to keep away the dark fairies. But somehow it was much bigger than that. The blankets were made of wall, and the dark fairies were trapped inside.

A black and white newspaper flocked against the doormat.

 _What's black and white and read all over?_

 _(A small Phil with ginger hair laughs)_

 **SCARECROW BOAT BREAK UP. DAN HOWELL TO GO SOLO?**

 **TEEN-TWEEN AND EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN BAND; SCARECROW BOAT HAVE FALLEN**

 **ONE LAST FIGHT FOR SCARECROW BOAT**

 **SCARECROW BOAT AREN'T SCARECROW AFLOAT**

 **SCARECROW BOAT: DAN HOWELL GETS HIS SCARECROW COAT**

 **SCARECROW BOAT SUNG THEIR LAST SCARECROW NOTE?**

 **DAN HOWELL: NO MORE BAND, NO MORE PHIL.**

A wave a sadness flushed the dark fairies away. And Phil remembered Jett with his blue hair and wondered whether he'd dyed it again. He wondered whether Hazel had had the baby yet, or whether Ennis had ever put on a shirt or whether Lucas's hair still reflected the sun. He thought he might even miss the horns growing from Angie's head.

A branch snapped within him.

The cracked edges racked against his ribs.

And the river came.

His knees buckled, throwing him against the floor. His eyes screwed up like the countless pieces of paper with words that weren't _good enough_ falling just short of the recycling bin before Phil would wrap his arms around Dan and lift him up, peppering kisses along his neck and running around the house trying to tickle him, a smile wrapped through the city buildings.

And the tears wouldn't stop.

His body shook like the laughing hollow bodies, rolling around in white sheets and a locked door with a belief that nothing would ever go wrong.

The tears still flowed.

His hands trembled like they did the day cold shook his bones. A whole row of shops, each one blue or pink or yellow, white birds that swooped down and out. Phil's coat felt paper thin against the bitter air. Early days. Tenuous days of staring at collar bones and shy kisses. Phil's hand caught up in Dan's.

 _Are you cold?_

 _A little_

 _Here_

Phil's eyes snapped from the puddle to the outstretched coat, a smile so wide Phil thought it would break. A seat on a bench and the first strong kiss, the first kiss that wasn't paper, that was made of something stronger. The first kiss that made Phil think he might have them all, a collection stretching across his chest of drawers, the paper fluttering into cotton, into leather, into linen, into wood, into Iron, and copper, and bronze, into willow and tin, the first kiss that made Phil think that gold was in their future.

The tears formed a puddle on the oak floor and Phil could see himself in it.

Somewhere in the world a baby cried. Somewhere in the world a person died.

* * *

Phil often wondered where Dan was.

The sun was watered down, a weak serum hitting against the waves. Phil had dragged a canvas chair to the beach, folding it out and letting it take its place in the sand, a small hole that would become filled again. The white birds cawed above and the walls of the cave encircled his small fragile body. A blanket was strung across his knees, knitted in patchwork like the ones from his youth, like the ones formed from his grandma's fingers as she shook, her fingers frail and white but persistent till the end. The sea lapped in and out again, a continuum, something to rely on. The air was cold but the beach was clear, only sand stretched before him. He felt as if he were the only human in the world. And yet he felt as if the sea were his friend. He pulled out a book from his canvas bag, and flipped to a random page, letting his eyes drift over the words without really reading. Somewhere in the world it started to snow.

But there was someone else in the world. There were many people in the world. And one of them was Dan Howell. Dan Howell whose name littered the newspapers like a drifting wrapper along grey streets, Dan Howell with _the hair_ who had _the package._ Dan Howell who was currently standing on the cracked cliff face, staring out to sea.

It was not yet the time.

* * *

The sea was a friend to Phil to help pass his days, the water spitting at him and the soothing sounds warming his ears. On the days where it wasn't too cold Phil would sleep there, a sleeping bag and an extra blanket and sometimes a small light to illuminate his face. He couldn't say it was as comfortable or as peaceful as the media made it out to be, in fact in retrospect he probably romanticised the whole idea. In reality it was cold, the sand itched in places he didn't even want to think about and more than once he woke up to a dog lick across the face. It wasn't pleasant but Phil was lost in a void, a victim to the wind, a man without roots. He had confined himself to a single leaf and that leaf had flown away and now he was dancing on the breeze.

Fog clinged to the windows and there were enough blankets strung across floors to swaddle an army of babies. The plants were being bitten by frost and the fire place groaned from all the work (after all fireplaces are also something that are romanticised - in reality? not so good).

There came a day where Phil had to look at himself; at his unshaven face which had sprouted wild daisies along his chin, his hair which had grown into grass that towered above heads, the dark shadows of the moon under his eyes and small rivers of blood in his eyeballs, patches of grey cloud along the collar of his shirt. There came a time where Phil had to look at himself and he had to realise he couldn't stay in the house any longer. He had to realise he had become the garden, he had finally grown roots but they were messy and unkempt and he had no gardener to tend to him. He was ivy growing up the wall, poisonous and bitter and no good for anyone.

It was time.

There was time.

* * *

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The diluted sun floated through the curtains and there was another _bang!_ on the door. Phil felt as if he were glued to the bed, his hands too heavy to even rub his eyes.

Bang!

 _Uncle Phil!_

Phil swore his hair had weaved itself into the pattern of the pillow.

 _Uncle Phil?_

And was his skin melded into the mould of the mattress?

 _Uncle Phil!_

His toes had dissolved into the bed board.

 _Uncle Phil!_

He groaned, rolling over and checking the time; seven am. He groaned again.

"Yes?"

"I found a frog uncle Phil?"

"Did you?"

"Yes! And daddy told me to come show you, he said you like that!"

"Oh did he now?"

"Frog don't do that, don't do that Mr Frog"

"Well tell daddy I liked the frog, and you know what he'd like?"

"What?"

"You should sing him that song you learnt yesterday!"

"Yes! Thank you Uncle Phil!" the voice chimed, tickling Phil's dewed eyelids.

"You're welcome"

A watery smile found his lips, soaking in the watery sunlight in an attempt to make everything stronger.

"Hey man"

"Did you enjoy your little frog incident this morning?"

"Did you enjoy your sing-song?"

"That was you?" Mark said his face dropping, a small line of sunshine resting in the crevice of his face.

"Uh-huh"

"You little bast-"

"Daddy!" cried Henry, running in, the pigtail on her left side unravelling slightly and a small amount of chocolate dotting her left cheek.

"Yes Pumpkin?"

"Can we go to park?"

"Well.." said Mark, a dishcloth in one hand and a plate in the other "I'm a little busy today, daddy's got a lot of work to do." He said, putting the plate down and dropping so his face was level with Henry's, "Maybe tomorrow?"

"But I want to go now!"

"Well, I'm sorry honey but you'll have to wait" he said, bopping his finger against her nose and lifting her onto the countertop "Now what happened to your other pigtail huh" he laughed, in an attempt to get her to cheer up "Where's that bobble gone?" But Henry was having none of it, her face falling into a frown and her head tilted slightly away from Mark's gaze. Phil could see him starting to waver.

"Hey I'll go." Phil announced, sitting up slightly in his chair

"What?"

"I'll take her to the park, I mean lovely day and all" he said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the french open windows. "Kids need their vitamin B and what not"

"D"

"What?"

"Vitamin D"

"Of fu- bugger off"

"Bugger off - are you kidding me?"

"What, I am British am I not?" Phil laughed, a foreign noise to his ears, a foreign feel to his stomach, but welcomed nevertheless "Ready for the park Henry?"

"Yes!" she cried, making grabby hands at her dad. Mark swung her down from the counter and she ran over to Phil, stretching out her arms and jumping onto his lap.

"Time to go, time to go!" she squealed.

"Kids!" Marks shouted, "Uncle Phil's going to the park, anyone want to go"

A herd of small pattering feet fell upon the stairs and Phil felt his heart sink a little. Three little blonde mops stuck their heads around the corner, their eyes like orbs floating in the air. Phil guessed this was happening then. He suddenly felt a bit too grown up to be wearing a _my chemical romance_ shirt.

"See you later, Mark"

"See you later Daddy!"

* * *

Phil felt as if he finally understood the phrase _I need eyes in the back of my head._ They were everywhere, small hands swung from bars that were just a little _too far_ off the ground and small feet plundered along ground that was just a little _too hard_ if they fell, whilst small voices cried _higher! higher!_ from a point in the air that was already just a little _too high_. Phil had no idea why Mark had trusted him with this. Maybe he had forgotten that Phil was a tree without roots. Maybe Phil should have reminded him that he was a seed on the wind of life. Then again maybe Mark would have only laughed and made him take the dog as well. _Character Building._ That was something Mark had inherited from his father, _it's good for you, it's character building._

Phil had no idea why he was being referred to as a character nor why that character apparently needed building work (hair work, Phil could see, tan work? maybe, but building work?)

The kids had commandeered two swings at once, Joe was up in a tree and Phil dreaded to think where Eddie might be. The swings were painted firetruck red and Phil hoped it wasn't a foreboding of the fire truck that was going to have to get Joe down.

"Hey Joe"

"Yeah"

"Maybe you should come down now"

"In a minute"

Phil sighed "Okay, just be safe" his voice trailed off, "make good choices"

His voice was mildly steady but his eyes widened as if accepting the terror into their black holes.

"Let me guess" said a warm voice, Phil turned his head. It was a woman. A woman whose features looked at if they had been smoothed out with a shading pencil, each line softer than the last. The kind of drawing one does quickly and is surprised with the quality of the outcome. "You're babysitting?"

"Yup"

"First time?"

"First time on my own with all of them, yes, they're my brother's kids"

"Ah" said the woman, smiling "full names are always a good trick if you want authority"

"To be honest, I think it would be more embarrassing for me than them," Phil smiled, "my brother's name choices are somewhat… unusual"

"Try me, my wife wanted to call this one Benedict"

"After Cumberbatch?"

"After eggs"

"Bold choice" Phil said laughing.

"Go on, try it"

"Fine," Phil said, making sure to keep an eye on the swings which were just a little too close to his face for his liking "Johannes Sirius Lester, you get down here right now" Phil shouted, his voice losing power but the power of the name seemed to make up for it, the boy's face turning a shade of red comparable to a tomato or a strawberry before he scooted down the tree, jumping and tumbling into the grass.

"Sorry Uncle."

"That's okay, Joe"

"Ah, I see" said the woman "A Harry Potter fan?"

"Worse" mumbled Phil, "a solar system enthusiast"

"Ah," said the woman "I forgot the Black's tradition was star names," she laughed, "Harry should have carried on with that, way cooler," she seemed to mutter under her breath, "bloody Albus Severus"

Phil laughed, "I'm Phil by the way"

"Mandy" said the woman, outstretching her hand. Phil shook it, and felt a small amount of happiness building up inside of him. He hadn't failed. He had held a conversation without crying, with a stranger no less. He was outside in the fresh air getting all the good quality vitamin B-D-B. He could see the flutter of the leaves and hear the shouts of children. He felt, for the first time in weeks, a crack in the illusion, a feeling of reality and a small flicker of happiness.

But not for long.

"Hey" shouted another woman, her faces harsher this time, as if the artist had opted for a thick pen, "You!" said the woman, her voice aggressive and loud but her face lit up in the biggest smile Phil thought he had ever seen. "Phil!" Phil's eyes widened slightly, she knew his name. She knew his name. He grabbed onto the backs of the swings, instinctively bringing Henry and Harley closer to his chest where they might be safe. Or safer. He saw Joe edge closer to him, and he felt Eddie tug at the back of his jeans. It felt as if they whole park had stopped to watch. And the woman was getting closer. "Prince Phil!"

Phil felt his whole body tense up, his stomach dropping and hitting his shiny (borrowed) shoes. Sparks of recognition started to light the parents faces.

"Is it you?"

Phil started to pull Henry out of the swing, unable to see her face, or the woman's, unable to really see anything except the defined edge of the wood chips which surrounded his feet. Henry started to cry and soon Harley joined too. And Phil had fifty hearts and they were all beating, in irregular beat to the pulling of his trouser leg.

Beat. Pull. Beat. Pull. Cry. _Uncle Phil._ Beat. Pull. Cry. Beat. Pull. Cry. _Prince Phil._

Phil lifted Henry into his arms, feeling her small head tuck into his chest, his hand clasping Harley's and Eddie gripping the back of his jumper. Even Joe stuck close. Across the distant mountains he heard _Hey Phil you alright?_

Beat. Pull. Cry. Beat. Pull. Cry. Stare. Stare. Stare. Stare. Stare. Stare. Stare. Stare.

Phil started to walk faster, his feet struggling to get a grip on the wood chips and Harley struggling to keep up, his small legs out of time with his sobs.

Thud.

Harley fell to the floor and Phil picked him up, hoisting both of them on his hips and walking as fast as he possibly could. He was going to be sick. He was going to fall over, the kids were going to whack their heads. There was going to be blood. He was going to throw up.

Somehow he managed to get through the gates without seeing them and then he was at the road, breathing heavily, and the crying was infectious.

They got around the corner and Phil put the kids on the ground, leaning backwards against the wall but the world was spinning and the corner of his eyes were fading into black and he could see the faces of the children, each only slightly different like a flickering image, like a flaw in the cloning system. The black grew and grew and the shadow got bigger, hanging over him, its mouth open as if paused in laughter, its eyes bigger than moons. It closed in, until everything was black.

And Phil felt his head thud against the floor.

He was being moved, his head was moving free of his own will and he felt a rough surface against his scalp. He could vaguely hear small cries and a soft soothing voice. Phil thought it might be the sea; his old friend, come again to help him.

The blackness was fading.

In front of him stood an old woman, her hair a grey that was darker than most, and her skin calloused like the cliff face. But her eyes were crinkled and kind and reminded him of his mother's. The woman was singing in a voice that was low and soft and Phil felt as if he were floating in the ocean, being gently rocked to and fro, surrounded by peace and harmony and a romanticisation of life that for once felt real. The cling film had been ripped and Phil was focused on the woman's eyes.

 _Little donkey, little donkey_

 _On the dusty road_

 _Got to keep on plodding onwards_

 _With your precious load._

 _Been a long time, little donkey_

 _Through the winter's night_

 _Don't give up now, little donkey_

 _Bethlehem's in sight._

 _Ring out those bells tonight_

 _Bethlehem, Bethlehem_

 _Follow that star tonight_

 _Bethlehem, Bethlehem._

 _Little donkey, little donkey_

 _Had a heavy day_

 _Little donkey_

 _Carry Mary safely on her way._

 _Little donkey, little donkey_

 _On the dusty road_

 _There are wise men waiting for a_

 _Sign to bring them here._

 _Do not falter, little donkey_

 _There's a star ahead_

 _It will guide you, little donkey_

 _To a cattle shed._

 _Ring out those bells tonight_

 _Bethlehem, Bethlehem_

 _Follow that star tonight_

 _Bethlehem, Bethlehem_

There were tears in Phil's eyes which used to splatter on cling film but now fell to the ground to nourish it, and Phil was reminded of the cycle. There may be no point to it all. There may be no eternal truth, no purpose for the children and their children and their children's children, that procreation is merely an instinct of biology, and feelings are merely a product of chemistry, maybe there is no answer to the puzzle.

But maybe it's not a puzzle.

Maybe its not question to answer or a riddle to solve, maybe the nature is there to be looked at, maybe the emotions are there to feel, maybe the children are there to be loved. There are many scientific cycles and geological cycles and life cycles that can be taught on whiteboards in schools and workplaces, but there's also another cycle. There's the cycle of human kindness, _you help me and I'll help you and we'll all get through this together._ And Phil thought maybe he had lost track on that recently. That maybe he had got caught up in an _us_ and _them_ , band and audience, celebrity and paparazzi, famous Dan and Old Dan, Young Phil and Prince Phil, humans and the sea. But here was this woman, sitting on the floor by his side, a small candy in the hand of each child, her bones aching and hurting, sat there singing to him, for no reason other than the cycle of human kindness. And something unlocked within Phil. And tears started pouring out.

* * *

The seasons passed, framed by the open french windows of his small attic room. That was another thing that was romanticised; attic bedrooms. In reality they were dark and small and scary, not private and a haven for creation. But Phil didn't need a haven for creation, for he had opened the creation in himself. He was a cracked open cliff, a waterfall streaming from his pores.

He began to write.

And he couldn't stop.

The bare trees outside gathered thick lumps of snow, dancing along the window pane as if choosing a place to rest before settling in communal groups, huddling together like a large family, flying from the branches when it was their time to go. The robin red breast frequented the window, its beady eyes peering through, examining the peeling wallpaper and the small lantern on Phil's desk. Examining the waste paper basket filled with pages and pages of writing and the ever growing stack on the desk. Examining the creaking of the door and the small smile of Mark through the crack of the door frame, checking to see if he was busy and later bringing back his dinner.

The weakened sun arrived, melting the snow from the branches and bringing with it a discard of thick coats in favour for thinner jackets (Much to the kids' delight). Small green leaves started to sprout on the trees, worming their way to greet the weakened to sun, to wish it _get well soon,_ to greet the morning air like an old friend. The fog slowly drew back from the window pane. Phil's hair grew a little longer.

The weakened sun grew stronger, helped by the courage and support of its people. The leaves grew bigger and greener and brighter, revelling in the joys to just be. To enjoy the wind and the sun and the rain and accept that maybe enjoyment is why it is placed on earth. Small animals started to return, little finches in the streets with small white eggs and a fierce chirp to keep the predators away. The squirrels returned too, several nuts squished into their mouths and their fur a golden grey, their bushy tails combing the branches.

The green faded into orange and Henry lost a tooth. Harley got new wellingtons with frog faces and Cornelia got a promotion at work. The weather was unseasonably clear and the big telescope came out, Mark taking turns holding the kids up to see their middle-name-sake stars, each one guiding them on their own separate adventure. The leaves burnt a flaming red, fanning across the window pane, one by one twirling down to the ground, as if inviting Phil to join them. They watched as his pen scrawled across the page, his hand scraping through his hair. Mark raked the leaves into a giant pile and the kids (and Odie the dog) jumped in it, their cries of glee floating through the window. Everything was orange for a while. And the tree was growing bare again.

Phil's book was finished.

* * *

He emerged from his room feeling prouder and stronger. No longer was he paperboy with the cling film vision, he could feel his feet upon the stairs and he knew it was reality.

Henry was playing with a small firetruck in the hallway, and for the first time in a long time Phil stopped and bent down to play with her. Her skin was still youthful but it had been shaped a little, becoming taunter along the jawline and nose, but her eyes still sparkled, and her voice still wavered when she cried out _Uncle Phil!_

And everything was fine and normal. Except for the small glow; which hadn't been there before.

The ringing phone echoed through the house, bouncing up the stairs and pummelling around corners to where Phil sat, legs crossed in a circle, with a rather questionable looking bear on his left and Henry to his right (with her right pigtail unravelled this time).

"I'll get it!" cried Joe (in a voice that was significantly lower than the day in the park)

"Tea for you mister cuddles?"

"Ah yes madam, of course, green tea if you may"

Henry giggled "of course"

She waddled off, getting an imaginary sachet of green tea from her pink plastic box before placing in in the pink plastic cup and pouring from her pink, plastic teapot.

There came a cry (a deep manly cry) from downstairs; "Phil! It's for you!"

"Will you please excuse me madame Lester?"

"Certainly"

Phil bounded down the stairs, taking the phone from Joe, who was already texting on the phone in his other hand.

"Yes, Phil speaking"

"Ya, hey Phil it's Jett"

Phil's head fell a little, as if his neck forgot how to support it. But it was okay. He was stronger now. He could deal with this.

"Oh, hey Jett! It's been so long, How's Hazel? How's the baby?"

"A long time dude? Try two years."

"Has it been that long?" Phil said (he really must owe Mark some rent)

"Yeah, man" said Jett, but his voice was warm and soothing, like the vocal manifestation of his own being, a kind of peaceful radiance through the speakerphone.

"What did you name the baby, in the end?"

"Naomi Joy"

"That fits so well with you guys," Phil laughed, feeling his body relaxing "I'm so sorry I missed it, I'm so sorry for not being there"

"That's okay, we missed you massively, but we knew you needed space"[26]

"Yeah"

"Where are you now?"

"I've been living at my brother's, in Kent"

"No way"

"and I wrote a book" Phil smiled uncontrollably, like a sun coming out from behind a cloud. Just saying the words made him feel warm all over. He felt so lucky. He felt like the sun was shining on him, like all the cheesy words and expressions for happy rolled into one. He wondered whether this was how people felt all the time.

"Congrats man! Hazel! Hazel! Phil wrote a book!"

Phil smiled, hearing the phone being passed across, the familiar crackling of fingers over the receiver.

"Phil that's such great news" Hazel's voice was the equivalent of honey and god had Phil missed it, god had Phil missed them all

"Thank you so much!"

"Have they offered to publish it?"

"I got the offer today, actually"

Phil could hear her screaming down the phone and he laughed a laugh that was long and loud and rich with every happy memory he had ever felt. A sense of community.

Henry peered her head down from the top of the stairs and Mark raised his eyebrow. Even Cornelia looked up from reading her book. Each offered him a smile (and Henry a little wave of a bear paw)#

"God I am so fucking nostalgic" Hazel laughed

"Hazel! You're somebody's mother now"

"I know" she laughed "Guess what?"

"What?" Phil said, leaning his head against the peach coloured wall

"I'm pregnant again!"

"Congratulations!" Phil shouted, tempted to jump around in a small circle of glee.

"I know it's so exciting!"

"This is me mentally hugging you, just so you know"

"You should come hug me in person! Me and Jett are throwing a party - everyone will be there"

Phil felt a slight dip in his mood - not exactly a rollercoaster drop - but just enough to feel it. His words snagged on his tongue.

"Umm I'm not sure" Mark looked at him funnily from the kitchen. Henry had sat down on the top step, Mr Cuddles sat properly beside her.

"Oh, okay, you should come though - it will be okay, it's been so long!"

"Yeah I just don't know my brother might want me to be babysit and it's a little cold, and you know I have nothing to wear and what if I fuck up"

"Breathe, breathe, it's okay" Hazel soothed.

Mark beckoned him from the kitchen.

"Hold on a minute" Phil breathed, his voice shaking slightly,

"Hey, Hey Phil" Mark said, placing his hands on his shoulders, and looking at him square in the yes. Mark's eyes were like a mirror. If Phil didn't know any differently he would say they were his, they seemed to swirl, like an ever moving sea, gentle and lapping. _An old friend._ "I think you should go"

Phil seemed to shake his head out of instinct, his teeth biting at his upper lip, and his hands tugging and scrunching the sleeves of his hoodie. He was well aware what was happening. It had happened. He had locked himself away. He had gotten out again. There was a relapse and he had locked himself away again. He was avoiding the source, he was damaged, he had built it up in his mind. Instead of a human face he saw a manifestation. He saw a swirling darkness. Instead of Dan Howell he saw the beating rain against the beach house, surrounding small him cuddled under blankets, he heard the woman's voice, _Prince Phil,_ he saw the girl with the red bikini and he heard Henry's cries, all to the echo of _little donkey._ He was visibly shaking.

"This has gone on long enough" Mark said, kindly but firmly and Phil felt as if he were one of the kids, another blonde mop peeking around the corner, another patter on the stairs. "I can come with you, if you want?" Mark said earnestly. Phil wondered how he'd grown up so well, how he's gone from echos of taunts to father of the year, to the man with a plan, with roots and wisdom. Phil wished he'd visited him sooner, because he loved Mark, Mark was the sea, he was all encompassing and soothing, he was warm water lapping around the ankles. He was love.

And so was Dan.

Phil just needed to go. He needed to see him. He needed to see the real person and not a fierce amalgamation from his imagination.

"Or Cornelia can go with you, I mean it's probably pretty fancy, she would be in awe"

"Hey!" came the voice from the living room

"Love you"

The house was love. It was warmth. It was safety, Phil felt welcome and comfortable. It gave him strength. But outside there was another world, one which was more messy, which was cold and dark but one which was filled with wondrous sights and people. He needed to go.

His fingers drifted over the phone once more,

"Yeah, Hazel, are you still there?"

* * *

It was dark. Like really dark. And not the kind of darkness that was comforting, not the shade of the corner of the attic with its stacks of papers and questionable spider webs. Not the kind of dark that could be romanticised in any way. Just dark, the most simplistic thing in the world.

Every so often a strobe light flew across Phil's face, purple or red or green or blue, Phil didn't know. Phil was very wasted.

He had been shaking when he left the house, his fingers translucent and paper thin, rattled by the wind and the rough seas of his insides. His fingers gripped onto the sleeves of his coat, and his toes curled in his shoes but it was not enough to make him grounded, he was a red balloon floating up and up, detached from reality. It was like he was behind a glass wall, he could see the colours and the people but he didn't feel as if he were truly there, he could sense the alcohol pouring down his throat but he didn't feel as if he were really drinking it. It didn't take much for Phil to get drunk. It had been so long.

There was a beacon of purple in the crowd. Phil stumbled towards it.

"Hazel! Hazel!" He shouted, tumbling from side to side and knocking his knee into a cream white sofa. Several heads turned around. A few raised their eyebrows, a few raised their glasses in a salute.

Hazel saw him and smiled (with only a slight hesitation of fear in her eyes)

"Hazel!" he shouted again

"Phil!" she shouted back, mocking him, her mouth tilting into a smile.

"Hazel!"

"Yes?"

"Have I ever told you how great you are?" Phil shouted, stumbling backwards and falling into someone that looked distinctly like Christina Aguilera, "Because you are, you are so great and Nessie is lucky to have you, and this new baby will be so fucking lucky too"

Hazel laughed, catching Jett's attention from the bar "Naomi" she laughed.

"Ah yes, Naomi Jett"

"Naomi Joy." she paused, taking Phil by the hand "Hey Phil, why don't you come with me?"

Phil's face dropped "Je ne veux pas"

"What"

"Je ne veux pas aller avec toi, j'ai peur, il est trop noire et je sais que Dan pourrait etre ici et je suis peur, parce que j'adore Dan encore, j'adore Dan et je sais que c'est bete et je suis bete et donc je suis trop ivre, je vais pleurer, je vais pleurer" Phil rambled in broken french, dropping to the floor with a thud that turned everyone's heads. Tears flew from his eyes. Hazel looked mildly shocked, the turnaround was so rapid it was almost comical, and yet there was a softness to her features, as if she understood, as if she had seen it all before (which she had).

"Nothing to see here, just a pregnant women helping a drunk man who decided he speaks french apparently" she laughed, her skin glowing.

"Here let me help" came a low voice, a man stepping forward. There was a snap of recognition but the thought soon flew away, swept along the tide of alcohol.

"Thanks" Hazel said, standing back up before putting her hand back onto the sofa, and sitting down. Jett came across from the bar.

"Here let me help you." he said (although he was staggering a little himself)

The music boomed through the house, ricocheting of the walls like bullets. Phil continued to scream in broken french. His head was storming down river and his feet were being dragged along some kind of rocks. Or maybe he was being carried upstream. The water filled his ears and the music became quieter. He felt two sets of rocks under his arms and he was being lay down on a river bed, the white water wrapping around him. His head lay against the sand. He was asleep.

* * *

When he woke up everything was white. His head had sunk into the mattress and his toes were pressed up against the end of the bed. Everything hurt and his gaze caught onto the fluttering curtains which seemed to pluck the morning sunlight amidst their fabric fingers, letting it glide through like water. The sky seemed abnormally blue and even the carpet boasted only a few dirt patches.

Yet blackness seeped from Phil's body, his bones ached and his head rattled and it oozed onto the bed, weaving into the sheets. He groaned audibly.

"You okay?" came a familiar voice and Phil jumped a little, knocking his head against the headboard, inciting the man's laughter.

"I feel like I died" Phil croaked, "and now I'm buried and I have no energy to dig myself back up"

"Graphic" said the man with a smirk (or rather it sounded like he said it with a smirk, Phil couldn't lift his head up enough to see his actual face) "Here" said the man standing up and walking around to side of the bed, propping his arms under Phil's and lifting him up. Phil looked at his face. His jaw fell open.

He would have audibly gasped had his throat not been so dry. He immediately shrank into himself a little, attempting to move his legs up closer to his stomach in a sort of defensive move. A wave of fear struck through his dry body and he felt like shaking and crying.

It was Dan. Or it was a shadow of Dan, another transformation to add to the timeline.

Dan's face dropped, his features retracting. He seemed to back away a little, a shadow of sadness creeping over his face. Phil saw that he held a glass of water in his hand, and he could hear the slight tinkering of the ice cubes against the side of the glass as Dan's hands shook.

"Hey" Dan said sheepishly, but Phil only stared. Dan's shirt was white and cotton and he was wearing black skinny jeans, but those were the only things that seemed regular to Phil. Dan's hair had been pushed back and styled upwards, forming a sort of quiff that Dan always used to be so fond of mocking. His face was taunter than it had been when he left, his cheekbones more defined, and his jawline less doughy, yet his eyes looked hollow, charcoal smudged under each eyelid and Phil noticed that the holes in his ears had started to heal up. Furthermore, Dan looked helpless, his air of dark humour and stance of relative confidence had left him, he seemed to hunch himself over slightly. His dark eyes seemed to look at him from below his eyelids.

The pair stared at each other for a while, before Dan reached the water out towards Phil, like a peace offering, the olive branch of the modern day. Phil took it in his trembling hand, trying to tilt it towards his mouth but his hand was not steady enough. Water trickled down his chin and onto his chest. Phil's watery eyes stared up at Dan, and somehow, even though Phil felt as if there was not an ounce of water in him, Phil started to cry.

Dan snapped into action, the paper figure gaining some substance, pushing through to the adjacent bathroom and pulling a towel from the towel rack. Quickly but cautiously, he approached Phil, pulling the bedclothes away from him, quickly glancing down at his almost-naked body before darting his eyes away, and turning him so he was sat up in bed. With the towel, he started to dab at Phil's chest, wiping away the spilt water before lifting up the glass again, his hands stronger now, and letting Phil drink it, his tears dropping into the liquid like raindrops in a puddle.

"Sssh" Dan soothed, letting his spare hand caress Phil's arm, "you're okay, everything's okay"

And Phil was reminded of another time.

A time of _the sickness hoodie,_ the green one which Phil had gotten from york university, his body shaking, wrapped up in a duvet without a cover, in a small room with a view of a brick wall. Tissues surrounded him, strew across the bed and spilling onto the floor, melding into the duvet itself. It was the early days, and Phil's newly donated brass key lay in the draw.

"Phil!" came the shout from downstairs but Phil's throat hurt too much to reply. Dan came through the door, his face immediately moulding into one of sympathy, before striding over and sitting down beside him, propping up his pillows and scraping some of the tissues into the bin.

"Rough day?"  
Phil nodded.  
"Here I got you this" Dan whispered, reaching into a plastic bag and revealing a pot of chicken soup. Cartoons flickered in the background, and Dan's head was against his chest.

Somewhere over the mountains someone was singing _little donkey._

* * *

Everything was still white and at some point Dan Howell had shifted away from Phil, leaving a small gap between them, like a canyon for ants, or flies. Phil could feel a slight breeze on his bare chest (his bare chest that was made from concrete). It was deadly silent.

"I've missed you" Dan said in a small whisper, that leaked through his tears, that arched over his hunched back.

Phil was too heavy to speak a word. Even the silence was white.

Time passed and they sat together on the bed. Phil didn't know how much time, nor did he care. He had no idea where anyone else was. At some point his hand went out and caught on Dan's. Dan's hands were shaking and Phil thought that in all the time he had been away from Dan, he had forgotten he was a real person. He had forgotten that he too was a hollow body with a tidal wave of emotions, that he too had a heart that beat. That was the trouble with distance, with not seeing someone every day, they start to become a vision of themselves, and onto that vision is reflected whatever the person is feeling, whatever the person wants to see. When Dan was away on tour, that vision to Phil used to be one of pure love and lust, a vision of Dan as a romantic soul, as someone to hold and to love. Phil would forget that Dan could have off days, that he could get tired and irritable, that he could have times where he just wanted to be alone. And this time the vision had been a reflection of something dark, a leaden ghost dragging behind him, a vision of stormy seas and grey tears, a scapegoat for anger and frustration, a reflection of loneliness.

He had forgotten that Dan too could breathe.

And now Dan was sat beside him, the grooves in his hands the same ones that Phil used to trace, but his soul, if such a thing has ever existed, eternally different. Phil wanted to ask him what had happened, what had overtaken him whilst Phil had been with the sea, but for now he was content just to sit beside him, just to hold his hand, just to remember the visions of Dan, and realise that people weren't visions, that people were complex and unsolvable, but most importantly, that they weren't there as puzzles to be solved, they were there to breathe and smile, to run and jump and watch the river go by.

Phil fell back asleep, his black hair falling against the white pillow and his chapped lips murmuring slightly. Dan followed soon after, his head falling backwards against the headboard, one leg on and one leg falling off the bed.

The white door creaked open slightly but neither of the boys stirred.

Jett peeked through, smiling slightly when he saw the two boys, all tangled up asleep. Slowly he closed the door behind him.

* * *

The morning was slightly colder than it had been the day before, (two days before? exactly how long had Phil been made of concrete?) and Phil drew his coat closer around him. Orange leaves spluttered down from trees, spiralling as if trying to keep ahead of the breeze. The sun seemed white as it peeked through the ever-bare branches of the trees. There was no one else about, but judging by the level of the sun Phil would have said that it was around six in the morning (then it was probably definitely two days later, right? He dreaded to check his messages, he hoped Mark wasn't too worried). Dan stood beside him, his white cotton shirt hastily hidden under a blue cardigan that judging by its shape and its _primark_ label most definitely did not belong to him. There was a distance between them, in which the cold air seemed to have made itself at home.

"Do you need me to walk you home?" Dan asked, looking Phil in the eyes. His feet were bare and the cold seemed to reach up from the concrete pathway, thawing away at his veins. Dan hopped from foot to foot.

"No that's okay" Phil said, "you seem cold, you should go inside"

Dan nodded.

"So umm, I'll um see you around?" Phil said, the wind blowing his fringe into his eyes, which rolled backwards because _omfg how cliche could you get_

"Yes see you" Dan said, a beaming smile lighting up his face which was enough to make Phil's heart melt a little, "Have a nice week" he said, leaning in and kissing Phil on the cheek. Phil's blush matched the early morning sunrise.

"Where have you been mister?" Mark stated, his voice firm but with an edge of laughter, a smile written on his face and several children hanging from his knees. "I take it it went well?" he said in a lower voice, with a raise of his eyebrows.

Phil went bright red, "Not like that!" he said, batting Mark on the arm before he was attacked by Henry and Harley,

"Uncle Phil!" they cried in unison, "We missed you!" and Phil simply could not keep the grin from off his face.

Everything was falling into place.

* * *

Dan rang later than day, earning another raised eyebrow from Mark and a wink from Cornelia, as Phil twisted the phone cord around his finger like a lost-in-love girl from the 90s (why the Lester's still had a phone with a cord was beyond Phil). Outside the ground was freezing, and the leaves were falling but the fierce red colours of autumn seemed to warm him up. Phil took to taking walks every day, sometimes alone, sometimes with Henry in tow, or Eddie and Harley, a few rare times even Joe. There was a warmth to Phil that had been absent at the beach house.

Dan and Phil started to have organised meetings, few and far between at first, at the coffee house round the corner. All the seats were brown leather, and the woman behind the counter had a thick scottish accent. They were nearly always out of milk and the windows had a premature _'merry christmas'_ frosted upon them (which the barista later informed them was still there from last year). On some days they even lit the fire in the corner. Dan always ordered caramel macchiato and Phil always ordered a Chai Latte.

It wasn't hard for them to fall back into old conversations, although it took a while for Phil to break the allusion in his head, to realise that the frosted depiction of Dan didn't match the autumn leaves of now. And it took a while (and some tears) for Dan to open up. Each day the pile of leaves outside the door grew bigger.

The barista either didn't know who Dan and Phil were, or pretended not to, or knew and didn't care. Which was one of Phil's favourite things about her. It seemed to him she was a perfect manifestation of autumn itself, in fact it became hard for him to picture her outside of the season. It turned out her name was Maggie, which made Phil trust her more somehow (it might have had something to do with his infatuation with Maggie Smith). Phil sometimes spent several hours just talking to her before Dan arrived, he knew all about her cats and her son down in London with his fancy journalist job. He'd even planned out her christmas gift.

The dark below Dan's eyes slowly disappeared.

"I sort of gave up when you left" he said one day, his face angled towards the floor. "I just didn't care too much" he recounted, his voice flat and level, as if he were simply informing Phil rather than digging for sympathy. "And so Angie did what she wanted to me, I became the doll she'd always wanted me to be" he said, gesturing to the quiff. He looked up, "I wore _a lot_ of leather" he laughed, "Like more than all of charlie's angels combined"

"Well, it does look good on you" Phil said, enjoying watching the pinkening of Dan's cheeks.

"Yeah, but it sure is uncomfortable after a while, I mean can you imagine running around and sweating on stage in fucking leather?" Phil laughed,

"Not exactly"

"I also did a lot of talk shows, with rehearsed answers to every question," Dan said, "Do you want to hear them?"

"Sure" Phil said,

"There was one rehearsed story about a party I went to, whereby I accidently spilled beer on Katy Perry's cat and she made me wash it, which never ever happened."

"Sure"

"And then there was, my new album's out soon, it's mostly pop, but there's some acoustic and I'm definitely excited about it, a lot of heart went into it!"

"Oh wow that sounds fake"

"I know right, Angie didn't actually mind the sad songs though, she said it did wonders for my image, she liked having the audience pine over me"

"I want to throw up" Phil said, reaching out to hold Dan's hand.

"In fact, that's what drove the wedge in the band, in the end, was Angie"

"I figured"

"She never really cared about them, or our music, or our image, she only cared about me, about the package, about the money she could make" Dan was crying a little now.

"Fuck her" Dan looked up, laughing as the clear drops slid down his face. And Phil wondered whether there had ever been a more genuine moment in all of the world. _His heart did that flippy-over thing._

"I'm pretty sure that would be counted as beastiality" Dan laughed and Phil snorted, spitting half of his Chai latte across the room, turning several heads, the pair laughing for several minutes, falling sideways on the sofa. Maggie smiled from behind the bar.

* * *

There were a few serious moments over steaming hot drinks. A few make-or-break moments over the snap of a gingerbread man. It was important to let things out, it was important to welcome the crack in the cliff and let the water fall over their heads. It was also important to do these things at night, when there was no one at the cafe, when Maggie had tossed them the keys with a _I'll let you two lock up._ Because there were a lot of tears.

There were implied apologies that hung in the air like the dusting of cocoa, like the remnants of toffee syrup smeared across the counters. But there was a moment when they had to be harvested, when they had to be transferred into the real world.

It was quiet and it was time.

"I'm sorry" Dan said, earnestly, his big brown eyes looking up and hooking on Phil. "For everything, I was never fair on you, I should have told you about the paparazzi stunt" Dan was crying heavily, his words coming out in chokes "I sh-sh-should have done ev-everything so much better, I was so stupid" He paused, his breath scraping against his throat, "To think I nearly lost you, to think I was _that_ stupid" The tears were catching on the ends of Dan's hair, curling it into the nicknamed _'hobbit hair'._ He looked significantly younger and vulnerable, like a small child who had dropped a plate, bottom lip wobbling, the world turning sideways. Something inside Phil broke, like his chest was ripped open; his eyes certainly were. He reached his shaking hand out, holding Dan's, two rocking pillars against the battering sea.

"I shouldn't have left" Phil said, leaning his forehead against Dan's, feeling Dan's tears splash against his cheeks. Together they cried, their hollow shoulders being drained slowly of energy as they slumped on the sofa. The shadows grew longer and Phil leant more and more onto Dan's torso. His hands traced Dan's jawline slowly "We'll do better this time, I promise"

Their energy seeped onto the cushions, Phil's head falling into the crevice of Dan's arm, eyes shut as the moon rose and fell again and morning came, confused morning shoppers and commuters looking with fondness at the two lanky boys, spread over the sofa, peacefully asleep.

* * *

Outside it was snowing. Small flecks hit against the pavement, gently dusting the lampposts and covering each of the shops in a layer of white. Golden lights hung in strings between buildings, they were wrapped around lampposts. The tree went up in the centre of town, decorated immaculately with red and silver lights, with a tremendous golden star adorning the top. Phil always said that autumn was his favourite season but the christmas spirit was something else, it was something that lodged inside of him and made him smile inside and out.

Dan had a burgundy woolen hat sat atop of his head, a dark blue scarf and thick red gloves, he was a mismatch, like a walking patchwork quilt. The scarf covered his mouth and in desperate times, he could pull the woolen hat over his eyes. Yet somehow nobody had yet realised he was there. It was like the snowy, sleepy town was a haven for them. Dan had slipped from the public eye recently, something which was labelled as _scandalous_ when it happened, but the media moves on so damn fast that it wasn't news for long. Dan even dropped his record label and fired Angie. Phil was proud of him, in fact just that word, _proud,_ made him feel warm inside.

That night they had left the cafe earlier, and Dan hadn't let go of Phil's hand since they left. They back to the bubble stage, they only had eyes for each other and Maggie never hesitated to make fun of them. Sometimes Phil could still see the grey ghost, the vision, the allusion, but it was fading, to be replaced by the reality which stood before him, someone who was broken and confused but open and earnest and willing.

Together they walked hand in hand round the town. The moon dazzled above and the rest of the town was asleep, with only the glow of the fairy lights allowing Phil to seeing Dan's face. It was like Phil was falling in love with Dan all over again. Each feature was as fresh and new and exciting all over again, like Phil was that same 23-year-old, with the long hair which fell in his eyes and the same green and blue wallpaper.

Like it was the same day in the snow, so many moons ago, Dan's hat flopping over his ears, Dan pushing him into the snow;

 _Such a beautiful view_

 _I know_

 _You're not looking at the sky are you?_

 _No_

 _You're a cheesy fucker_

 _I'm your cheesy fucker_

 _That sounds like you fuck cheese, Phil, you know that right?_

Phil could stare at Dan all day, get lost in his rich brown eyes, trace along his cheekbones, wonder at his jaw line and run his hands through his hair. But there was a small part that was still hesitant, he was in two halves. He was very glad they were taking it slow, but the other part of him just wanted to kiss Dan's chapped lips, and hold him in his arms. It had been two months since he reconnected with him.

"Do you want me to walk you home?" Dan said, knocking into Phil.

"You're soppy, you know that" Phil grinned

"You haven't answered my question yet"

"That would be spiffing, my prince charming"

Dan laughed, "are you going to swoon after me"

"Of course, who couldn't look up on that face and not swoon; the face of an angel! the face of an angel I say!"

They walked down the pavement, hands solidified and coats wrapped tightly around their own bodies. All the lights in Mark's house were out, but the lamppost outside still shone brightly.

"So I'll see you at school tomorrow, then?" Dan said, grinning.

"Oh shit, did we have maths homework"

"Nah, did you do the geography yet though?"

"I copied it from Mark."

"Ah, what did it cost you?"

"Twenty pounds"

Dan whistled, "worth it?"

"Anything is worth it if it means I get to spend more time with you" Phil leaned in closer to Dan.

"Phil that might be the cheesiest thing you've ever said" Dan laughed, his forehead against Phil's "And I'm counting 2009"

"Ugh don't remind me" Phil said, smiling, before Dan leant in and kissed him, moving his hands so they rested in Phil's hair,

"I think you were sweet" he said smiling, "In fact you still are"

"Shut up" Phil laughed, "see you tomorrow?"

"I'll be here" Dan smiled, hugging Phil one last time before he walked up the steps to Mark's house.

He unlocked the door, stepping inside the house and switching on the light before leaning backwards against the door frame. He was lighter than air, he wanted to float away.

"Well that was sweet" Mark said, making Phil jump out of his skin before going a deep red.

"I didn't know you were there"

"I was waiting up for you" Mark said, grinning

"Ugh mom" Phil said in a fake american accent

"Do I have to have _the talk_ with you"

"Fuck off"

"Seriously though, it's cute" Phil hovered awkwardly on the stairs, his face as red as the stockings that hung on the fireplace. "You should invite him here for christmas"

Phil seemed to waver slightly, before a small glow it his face "Sure" Phil said.

"You look so happy"

"I am"

"Good" Mark's face grew more serious "But if he ever fucks with you again"

Phil laughed, "I get it"

"I have serious muscles" Mark said, flexing his muscles.

"Sure, in your dreams"

"Watch it"

* * *

The dark cloak of night stretched over and the fairy lights became man-made stars. The whole village had flocked to the tree to sing carols and the christmas spirit buzzed in the air. Singing around the christmas tree was a christmas eve tradition. Henry sat upon Phil's shoulders, her legs swinging rather too enthusiastically to _rockin' robin,_ and kicking him in the face (much to the boys delight - which included both Dan and Mark, who caught their laughter in their hands, but all the same). Harley climbed onto Dan's shoulders, and it was clear he already liked him, _Dan is much funner than you Uncle Phil,_ Dan raised his eyebrows,

"I called it Phil, I'm funner, you owe me ten quid"  
"Shut up" he said, leaning into kiss him, causing all the kids to pull faces and yell _'Yuck!'_ and lead to Mark and Cornelia kissing too, just to wind them up.

Phil's grandma was even there, and his cousins and extended family would all arrive tomorrow. Phil's grandma had walked in and eyed Dan up and down, tilted her head and said "Have I seen you before?"

"I'm in a band" Dan said and grandma had proceeded to launch into her voluptuous affair with a rock star in the 60s, much to Phil's amusement, and to Mark's horror as he rushed to try and cover all the kids' ears at once, Joe fighting him in an attempt to listen.

That night she wore sparkly reindeer antlers and a red nose, and sung at the top of her lungs, laughing and whispering with Cornelia.

Dan made the kids laugh by singing in a deliberately loud and off-key voice;

 _Ding dong merrily on high,_

 _In heav'n the bells are ringing:_

 _Ding dong! verily the sky_

 _Is riv'n with angel singing._

 _Gloria, Hosanna in excelsis!_

 _E'en so here below, below,_

 _Let steeple bells be swungen,_

 _And "Io, io, io!"_

 _By priest and people sungen._

 _Gloria, Hosanna in excelsis!_

 _Pray you, dutifully prime_

 _Your matin chime, ye ringers;_

 _May you beautifully rime_

 _Your evetime song, ye singers._

 _Gloria, Hosanna in excelsis!_

Phil didn't think he'd ever been more in love in his life, his eyes lighting up as Dan made Eddie and Harley laugh, and the christmas spirit lodged into his soul. He felt surrounded by love and warmth and happiness, and for once he didn't worry about the come down, but just enjoyed the high.

The snow fell and Phil sat upon the roof top. The whole skyline fell in front of him, fading into different shades of blue and black. In the distance small lights wavered but most were out, waiting for santa claus. Below them a whole house slept, several children to a bed, some on the floor, adults strung across sofas. Dan had never quite experienced a christmas like it. His had always been subdued. Even as a child he had never gotten up before 8 o'clock (compared with Henry who apparently awoke at 1am last year), it was always just him, and his parents and his brother before his dad passed away. Then they would go and spend it with their grandparents. Dan always remembered that feeling of christmas cheer, that spirit that seemed to leak into the air, but he never remembered the manifestation of it. Christmas was rather dull, especially once his conservatives grandparents were there (they rolled their eyes at his ear piercing, god knows what they would have done if they had known he was gay). But Phil's christmases were different, Mark's house was packed, and everywhere there were smiles.

Dan took Phil's hand in his, letting his head fall against his shoulder. Small roots began to grow from his fingernails, from his hair, from his skin, melding him to the house, melding him to Phil. He was no longer a seed on the breeze. He had a home.

"I love you" Phil whispered into his neck

"I love you too"

* * *

Christmas rang bright and early (just as Phil said it would) and Dan couldn't bare to open his eyes. They were staying in the back bedroom, Phil's second (third? second once removed?) cousin on a small camp bed at the side and Phil's elderly uncle (or friend, Dan didn't think there was any real blood relation) had gotten the real bed. Dan had been too lazy to set out a sleeping bag, and him and Phil had ended up sleeping in a pile of duvets and blankets on the floor. But it was cosy (even if they did get questionable looks from Roger (Steve? Frank?)).

Dan peeled his eyes open, feeling the sun burn against his corneas. Phil sat before him, his black hair perfectly framed by the sunlight like a halo, lingering in the crevices of his face, in the shadows of dimples. He was wearing the biggest smile Dan had ever seen.

Dan noticed both the camp bed and the bed had been vacated.

"They're gone already?" Dan said, gesturing in the general direction of the beds.

"Yup, we're late sleepy head"

"Late? What time is it?"  
"7" Phil said, grinning

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Dan said, groaning and pulling the pillow back over his head.

"Come on" Phil said, tugging at Dan's arm, before reaching down to kiss his shoulder blade. Dan turned around, "Did that get your attention?" Phil said laughing, before leaning down to kiss his collar bone, "Now will you get up?"

"We'll see" Dan said smiling. Phil leant down to kiss his stomach,

"Now?"

"Hmm" Phil joined his lips to Dan's, letting himself kiss him slowly, his smile pressing against Dan's lips.

"Now?"

"You got me" Dan said, leaning up in their (makeshift) bed, revealing his bare stomach, stretching his arms up over his head and rubbing his eyes.

"You're doing this on purpose"

"What?" Dan said mid-yawn

"Nobody can be both that cute and that hot"

"Well apparently they've found the perfect formula in me" Dan said, tilting his head to the side.

"Shut the fuck up"

"Merry christmas to you too"

"Merry christmas" Phil said, leaning in and kissing Dan's upturned mouth.

A few people glanced at them when they walked into the living room, but it was far too chaotic for anyone to offer anything more than a smile (and maybe a slight raised eyebrow at their connected hands). Maybe chaotic was too light of a word. It was carnage. Wrapping paper was strung everywhere like a thousand streamers had gone off, with kids running around with new toys and parents grappling with their cameras in attempt to catch the magic which could never quite be conveyed through the lens.

Phil's face lit up. He was literally a child as he rushed forward, leaning against his mother (and avoiding looking directly at his father), shouting Merry Christmas and hearing an echo back. Dan stood by the door, watching. It made him think of the future, and not the big scary future with the bright lights and looming question marks, but a warm future, a simple future where he and Phil sat in front of the fire, where tiny little heads that resembled them opened their presents and cried out in small voices. Where Dan had a son and ruffled his hair and a daughter whose face lit up with a small cry of, _santa came!_ The fire flickered in his mind's eye like a small glimmer of happiness, of hope in a sea of uncertainty and Phil turned around, beckoning him towards him, Phil's mother offering him a wide smile and a present wrapped with a perfect red bow.

He could feel the warmth of the fire against his face.

* * *

Christmas dinner was loud. It was full of christmas crackers and crappy paper hats, of loud singing and even louder (well meaning) arguing. Dan had been scared of people judging him, of people scrutinising him. But he could now see he couldn't have been more wrong, he was never going to be the focus because there was no focus, each person was enjoyed by everyone and each person enjoyed each other. Dan thought there had never been a more perfect example of unity.

Phil's hand clutched his under the table. And Dan's smile was too big for his face.

Several of Phil's cousins stood in awe of Dan. Dressed in plaid pajamas (that may or not have been Phil's) and an oversized dressing gown (that may or may not have belonged to Phil's grandmother) he was far away from _'Sex God Dan Howell'._ But apparently his trademark cheekbones and tousled hair were identifiable everywhere. They were excited and Dan was gracious, spilling stories to Ryan about the road, and Ennis' morning routine (Ryan's eyes seemed to light up at the mention of Ennis, which made Dan laugh). It wasn't the harsh glass edges of questions asked by reporters, or the nails-on-a-chalkboard digging of talk show hosts, it was, like everything else in the day; warm. It was gentle curiosity and it reminded Dan what he he had loved about fame, before the blank ink had spilled across the page, the wide eyes of fans, the joy it brought to their faces. Phil looked on, watching Ryan and Cora's eyes light up, watching the lines in Dan's face mellow, as his face softened and lit up again with memories that had been forgotten amongst the black sea. Phil felt proud. His heart was beating, fit to burst.

* * *

The cleaning-up of a post-christmas Lester household took weeks. People left in dribs and drabs, lots of hugs and panicked motions of _who is this again?_ on the part of Joe and Eddie and sometimes even Phil. Dan spent a lot of time collecting rogue streamers and pieces of wrapping paper (and the rest of it staring absentmindedly at Phil's smile and being hit over the head with Cornelia's feather duster). He had grown closer with Cornelia, it turned out she too was a huge enthusiast of Alexander McQueen and could talk fashion with him until the early hours of the morning (and would have had Phil not tapped his fingers impatiently, waiting for him at the door frame to walk him back to his temporary flat). Walking Dan home had become a nightly tradition, like a pair who had grown old or came from a time before technology. Dan had become a sort of live-in resident at the Lester's over christmas, the kids loved him, and despite all their raised eyebrows Cornelia and Mark secretly loved him too. But Phil wanted a slow pace, he wanted Dan but he also couldn't forget the lonely nights by the sea. And Dan was plenty fine with letting Phil take his time.

It was enough, and he was constantly reminded of how lucky he was (both by an internal voice and an external voice of an I-think-he's-joking Mark)

* * *

The next year came and went with a bang, Dan had been invited to a party but he shook at the thought. Instead he watched the night get darker from the Lester's worn-out sofa, each of the kids dropping one by one until it was just the four of them (and a very tired _'I'm-an-adult-now'_ Joe). The night was filled with just dance battles (Phil fell over in 3 of the songs), several glasses of alcohol, a rather too competitive edition of charades and a lot of hugging. These were the roots Phil had been searching for his whole life, this was the home Dan had wanted, dance competitions and laughter lapping at their glasses. Ties linked them all together, the unbreakable bonds Dan had been singing about in his songs for years, without ever knowing what he meant. But now in reflection of the window as the fireworks echoed upon the sky, he understood.

He pressed his lips against Phil's, tasting raspberry cider and feeling a smile against his own mouth. Fireworks felt appropriate.

* * *

Jett and Hazel's home was significantly brighter than the last time Phil had been there. This time sunlight fell through the window, and Phil could see that all of the walls had been painted pastel yellow. He wondered whether he had ever seen the house in the daytime. The yellow of the walls was surrounded with pale blue canvas furniture, and a beautiful family portrait lined the fireplace. It was maybe the warmest and softest place Phil had ever been. It made him want to nuzzel his head into Dan's neck and eat vol-au-vents whilst discussing Jane Eyre.

Hazel's hair was still purple, but now it was a pastel lilac, cascading over the sofa like a beautiful sky. Her white maternity t-shirt stretched over a belly that was alarmingly big and on her knee sat maybe the most beautiful child Phil had ever seen, her skin as soft and smooth as her mother's, and her eyes as strikingly blue as her father's. Phil recognised the dungarees he has sent over for her third birthday, as a sort of I'm-sorry-I've-missed-a-lot-of-your-important-moments-I-hope-we-can-be-friends make up gift. Underneath, the child wore a pastel yellow t-shirt and bright yellow shoes with ruffled socks. It didn't feel real. The scene looked exactly like something out of a glossy magazine. Phil ran his thumb along Dan's hand.

"You're the first ones here!" Jett exclaimed, hitting Phil enthusiastically on the shoulder.

"So good to see you!" Phil exclaimed hugging Jett, before handing him over to Dan like a small baby.

"This is emotional" Jett said, shaking his head "I've lost my rock star edge huh?" he laughed.

Dan shook off his coat, taking Phil's before hanging them on a coat rack by the door. "Such a flipping gentleman Dan Howell - have you changed at all?"

"Flipping?" Dan laughed, "You definitely have"

"There's a child now" he laughed

"Ah yes, she's adorable, congratulations Jett, I know it's a little late but"

"Naomi" Jett called, but the child had gone shy, hiding behind her mother's pale green jeans, her beautiful brown curls spilling around her kneecaps. Hazel picked her up, and she buried her face in her mother's neck.

"Look, Naomi!" Hazel said, "It's Uncle Dan and Phil"

Uncle Dan and Phil, Dan couldn't help but grin, a small family of two, he clutched Phil's hand tighter. Naomi wouldn't look up.

"I'm sure she'll say hello later" Hazel said, "Anyway, how are you?" her face lit up, as if she was genuinely excited to here an answer of 'fine'.

The doorbell rang and Ennis arrived (wearing an actual shirt? Phil didn't think he'd ever seen him not shirtless before), his long black hair pulled back into a small ponytail. Naomi ran towards him,

"Ennis! Uncle Ennis!" He whisked her up into his arms, swinging her around.

"How's my princess Naomi?"

"Mermaid" she said indignantly.

"It's mermaids now mate" Jett laughed, from the armchair.

"Ah, I am sorry, mermaid Naomi" She giggled, patting him on the head.

Musical notes floated from a pale blue record player, gently dusting the ears of all of the guests, as they laughed and caught up. Lucas arrived late (as usual), his new (or apparently not-so-new based on the shining rings on their fingers) girlfriend in tow, his face lighting up when he saw Dan and Phil. He patted them both on the shoulders before pulling them in for giant bear hugs, talking all about what had happened since last time he saw them (including a very enthusiastic story regarding Bono), gesticulating widly with Hazel politely reminding him to watch out for the glasses behind him.

The light of the day started to fade, and the music was on its third loop but the talking kept going. Phil took a moment to lean back on the sofa, watching the situation. Watching, Hazel play peek-a-boo with Naomi, as Jett watched on fondly, watching Ennis and Lucas arm wrestle and Dan talk to Lucas' girlfriend Jenny about the zayn drama on twitter. He felt completely comfortable and he couldn't believe quite how lucky he was. He was no longer a seed on the breeze, he was a beautiful flower blooming in the spring. And he was surrounding by other beautiful flowers, his family growing strong beside him, his friends taking root and blooming beautiful, and Dan, their roots intertwining. The sun shone brightly. And Phil knew it was going to be a good day.

* * *

 _ **Thank you so so much for reading, and I am truly sorry about the formatting. If you could review, please do, because this took so much out of me and to have feedback would make it all worthwhile. Thank you again and have a nice day!**_


End file.
